


It’s a Beautiful Life

by Dalee



Series: Safe Inside [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Mob, Blushing, Competence Kink, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Insecurity, Language Kink, M/M, Meet the Family, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Juvenile Detention, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD, Protective Batfamily (DCU), Protective Jason Todd, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, selectively canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalee/pseuds/Dalee
Summary: The day the headlines read that Jason Todd was alive, Numbers went to Wayne Manor.
Relationships: Numbers (Batman: Gotham Nights)/Jason Todd
Series: Safe Inside [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865641
Comments: 90
Kudos: 174





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Got real excited and posted this a little earlier than planned.
> 
> Title inspired by James Arthur’s “Safe Inside.” Fic partially inspired by [this post](https://shortdalee.tumblr.com/post/623377143623237632/batman-gotham-nights-11-2020-i-cant-believe).
> 
> Many, _many_ thanks to [noharlembeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noharlembeat/pseuds/noharlembeat) for your help. I still don’t know whether I’ve incorporated everything I’d wanted to as well as I’d wanted to, but I sure as fuck know I couldn’t have done any of it without you.
> 
> **Do not use, edit, or repost this work, even with credit.** This fic should be found on Archive of Our Own (AO3) and _only_ on AO3.

When the sun has set,  
no candle can replace it.

—George R.R. Martin

* * *

Numbers was going to die. He was going to _die._ Even _reporters_ weren’t desperate enough to go directly to Wayne Manor. Not even _Vicki Vale_ was desperate enough. _No one_ was, not anymore.

But today’s newspaper crinkled in his grip, its headline a stark reminder of why he was here, why he _had_ to be here, and why he couldn’t turn back no matter how hard his legs, his entire body, shook.

He didn’t know why he’d brought it with him. It hardly precious or irreplaceable. There were hundreds, _thousands,_ of copies available anywhere and everywhere, and if somehow, all those copies vanished, there were other newspapers, other articles, that basically said that same thing.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw it anyway. He’d checked the headlines every now and then on his way to Wayne Manor, knowing that headline wouldn’t change in the few minutes since he’d seen it last but needing to check anyway, just in case. The words were seared into his memory, every capitalized, misleading letter.

The _Gotham Gazette_ had made it sound like Jason had been lost and finally found, as if the rescue was _finally_ over. As if they hadn’t been the first to callously write him off for dead even _before_ that damn video had aired. And after? After the video, they’d done a one-eighty like they were now, going on and _on_ about how Gotham had failed Jason, how he was yet another child in a long line of orphaned children who’d ended up in bad homes.

Like he was just another _statistic._

But then, that was better than the _Knightly News_ , who’d spun it as though Jason had just been globe-trotting and had waltzed back in after all these years of leaving his family in grief, as if _they_ hadn’t been the ones to spread the rumor that the Wayne Family had been setting an example of Jason. As if they hadn’t _blamed_ Jason for his own murder, like it’d been _his_ fault for getting involved with the mob. As if Jason hadn’t been just been a _kid,_ as if him being an example had made his murder any less—

The newspaper crinkled again when his fist tightened. He took a moment to pause and smooth it out before rolling it back up.

There wasn’t a point to that either. He wasn’t going to keep it after this. It was going straight to the recycling bin soon as he saw one. There was no point in trying to smooth out the folds in the paper.

Still, he straightened it out meticulously. The _Gazette_ looked back up at him, almost mocking. It was all speculation save for a few quotes from the press conference where Bruce Wayne himself had confirmed that Jason was alive.

Numbers had watched that press conference twice when he’d found out that Mr. Wayne had held one. Some reporters had braved asking him more probing questions, had asked the video, where Jason had been all this time, what he’d been doing, but Mr. Wayne hadn’t answered in any depth.

There hadn’t been any pictures either, and Numbers had looked. Looked everywhere he could, reliable source or not. He didn’t know how the Waynes had managed to keep Jason’s location so under wraps, but they’d closed ranks around him and hidden him from the public eye in a way he honestly hadn’t thought was possible in this day and age.

Maybe it should’ve been a little worrisome, just how good the Waynes were at hiding things—people—from the public, but mostly, he was glad that Jason had that kind of backing, that kind of protection.

That they cared about him at all was a surprise but not an unwelcome one. Jason needed as many people in his corner as he could get. It was about time he had someone who could protect him back and do it _well_ unlike—

He stopped in front of the gate. Not the door, the _gate,_ because he’d somehow forgotten that Wayne Manor was an honest to god _estate,_ that it had a gate and that long rich-people driveway that he’d only ever seen on TV and in movies. There was even an intercom to the side.

He stared at the gate, at the sprawling fancy mansion within it, and felt his stomach twist, sharp and uncomfortable.

Which was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to be so uncomfortable. It was just a mansion. And yeah, it wasn’t anything remotely close to what he was used to, but his family had never been flat-out broke. They were upper working class and lucky enough to never have been _broke_ broke. It shouldn’t hit him this hard, how much—how much _wealth_ the Waynes had, when the Wayne Family had been part of the 1% for longer than he’d been alive. He’d _known_ that from the very beginning, so his reaction was unwarranted.

He shouldn’t be this afraid to even _breathe_ on the gate, never mind press the call button on the intercom to try and get inside.

And if he was, so what? He wasn’t going to go through with it? After coming all the way here? He was just going to _leave_ without finding anything out?

How many articles had he read, both paper and digital, obsessively checking every day on the off chance that something new had come up about Jason’s case? How many hours had he played that fucking video on loop, looking for a clue, _any_ clue, that it was fake? That Jason wasn’t dead, that it was all an elaborate plot to escape? That it was _anything_ but what it was.

Because Jason couldn’t be dead, he _couldn’t._ Numbers had had plans. He was going to come back to Gotham for college. He was going to get over his stupid insecurity and his dumbass fear and reconnect with him. He was going to pay Jason back for everything, and he hadn’t expected their relationship to go further than that, he’d long accepted that, but if he could just be friends with Jason again, if he could just have Jason back in his life _at all,_ he would’ve moved heaven and earth. He just—

He’d had _plans._

After almost three and a half years of chasing a ghost, he couldn’t give up when he was so close. When he might get _more_ than the answers he’d been so desperate for, might confirm that no, he hadn’t been drugged or poisoned like he’d first thought when he’d seen the _Gazette_ this morning. It was real, _this_ was real, and Jason was _alive._

He’d give anything for that.

So he pressed the stupid button on the stupid intercom, took a step back, and waited. His hands were getting clammier, and he could barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears, but he didn’t throw up or run away. That was half the battle, wasn’t it? To actually _be there_ for the battle?

_If you ever gotta go up against someone who can beat your ass,_ Jason’s voice whispered in his ear, and he was back at Ma Gunn’s again, sitting on Jason’s bed because his cellmate had beaten the shit out of him again and he was so fucking _scared,_ and Jason was showing him how to make a fist, was trying to teach him how to fight, _you never look away, you hear? You keep your head up, make yourself look pissed as all hell, and **you fight back.** Even if they beat you to the ground, you do whatever you have to—scratch, bite, pull hair, aim for the dick, **whatever** —and you make them **work** for it. You take as many of those fuckers down with you as you can._

_“Wayne residence, Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I help you?”_

_You hear me, Numbers? You may be weak, but like fuck you’re an easy target, and you gotta make that shit **known.**_

Head up, look pissed as all—

Wait, no, that—that wouldn’t help him here. He wasn’t picking a fight, he was trying to get answers, and who knew if the Waynes would cooperate if he came across as hostile? Not that he expected cooperation from them, not exactly, but if he wanted an actual shot at anything, he probably couldn’t afford to look hostile.

“Uh, hi?” Numbers winced. Bad impression from the get-go, wonderful. “I’m—my name’s Numbers.” His eyes widened, and he quickly backtracked, “I mean! My name’s Joel Eppes. I—I was”—not _was,_ Jason was still alive, he was _alive,_ everyone said so, so it had to be right, it _had_ to be, **_please_** —“ _am_ an old friend of Jason’s.”

A beat, and then he was berating himself. _Stupid._ Why did he call himself Jason’s friend like that was still a thing? It wasn’t like—he’d all but _abandoned_ Jason after his release. Who cared if his family had moved out of Gotham after that? Who cared if the Waynes were the mob of all mobs? He should’ve reached out somehow. He should’ve done something, _anything,_ to stay in touch. He owed Jason his life, his sanity, his—his _everything,_ and he’d just _left_ him. Washed his hands of him like he was something to regret, something better left in the past.

Something to _forget._

He hadn’t even made a shiva call or visited the Waynes after news of Jason’s murder had hit. He hadn’t even _tried._ What kind of ungrateful, heartless asshole _did_ that?

And then, when he’d finally gotten his head out of his ass, what did he do? Even _more_ nothing. He hadn’t found his body or his murderer after _how_ many years— _but he was still alive, so of course he couldn’t_ —so what right did he have, claiming to be anything to Jason? He was acting like those people who came out of the woodwork to suck up to their rich friends or relatives because they wanted something from them.

_“I see.”_

Numbers’s head snapped up.

What? What did he see?

_“I’m afraid this isn’t Master Jason’s residence. If you like, however, I can relay a message to him.”_

There wasn’t anything off about his tone or wording, but somehow, Numbers got the feeling that that was the last thing this man—Mr. Pennyworth, right?—wanted to do.

“Just—” He closed his eyes. Took a second to breathe, to calm down. This was likely his one and only shot. He had to get it right. He couldn’t stumble over his words like he already had.

He could still see it, the headline burned into his memory, a reminder.

It’d be worth it—everything that’d happened these past few years, _coming to Wayne Manor_ —if he could at least _know._ He didn’t need to see Jason if Jason didn’t want to meet him. He’d understand if Jason didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, and he’d respect that. He’d abide by that to the best of his abilities, would move back out of Gotham if that was what it took, if only he could _know for sure_ —

“He’s alive, right?” he asked, and he knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care. What did pride or dignity matter in the end when he could finally _know?_ “Jason, he’s alive?”

Another pause, this one longer than the last, and Numbers genuinely thought that he wasn’t going to get shit, which, okay, fair. He was a total stranger, and he probably wasn’t coming off well. He’d get it if Mr. Pennyworth told him to get lost.

So, what if he’d ended up coming here for nothing and would die with nothing? That was what he deserved after everything. He got it, he really did.

_“Yes, he is.”_

“What?” Numbers blurted out, the word coming out breathy, because _what?_ Did he hear that right? Did—did he really say—

_“Master Jason is alive, sir.”_

Jason was alive. He was _alive._

Numbers felt himself smile wide, almost couldn’t bite back the breathy, near hysterical giggle that threatened to spill out.

_Jason was alive._

_“Sir?”_

Right, in front of a member of _the_ most ruthless mob in the entire Eastern Seaboard, if not the entire country. Numbers cleared his throat and tried to piece together what little composure he had.

“I—” He shook his head. “Could you please let him know that Numbers came by?” He fumbled for his pocket and stilled when he realized that he didn’t have anything to write with. He didn’t even have pockets because he was still in his _pajamas._

Not that that mattered because he was talking to an _intercom._ What was he supposed to do, leave his number on the ground and have Mr. Pennyworth come pick up it, hoping it didn’t get blown away by the wind in the meantime? Have Mr. Pennyworth walk all the way out here for a piece of _paper?_

Fuck, he was a mess. No wonder he was being gate-kept.

_“Numbers,”_ the man in the box repeated skeptically, and maybe a little judgingly, but Numbers was used to that. It _was_ an odd nickname. People normally used it as an insult. _His_ had originally been used as an insult, too. He’d only really started using it as an actual name after—

**_Own_** _it, man, it’ll probably piss them off more than anything else, and weak guy like you? You gotta make your hits any way you can._

After.

“Yes.” Belatedly, he added, “Sir. He’ll know who it is”— Numbers hoped he would, but what if Jason didn’t remember him?—“it’s what he used to call me back at Ma Gunn’s.”

Some more silence. Numbers felt his stomach plummet. What now? What did he say wrong _now?_ Why couldn’t he stop saying the wrong things?

_“By ‘Ma Gunn’s,’”_ Mr. Pennyworth said slowly, his tone making the hair on the back of Numbers’s neck stand up, the air charged with a warning, a sense of having poked awake a hibernating bear, _“are you perhaps referring to Faye Gunn’s Juvenile Detention Center?”_

He flinched at the name, couldn’t not even after all these years. It was one thing to think it, to say it, but somehow a completely different thing to hear it spoken to him.

It hadn’t been on the news at the time, that Ma Gunn’s had been shut down and that Ma Gunn herself had disappeared. Or maybe it had. That was the sort of news that’d break big, right, the disappearance of the woman at the center of _the_ biggest corruption scandal to involve Gotham’s judicial system since the city’s founding? Maybe his parents had deliberately hidden it from him, not wanting to dredge up bad memories. They’d done that often, hide things from him, afraid that it’d trigger him.

They shouldn’t have bothered. Sure, he might’ve gotten triggered, and he _definitely_ would’ve had an uptick in nightmares, but what did a few nightmares matter in the grand scheme of things when he could witness Ma Gunn’s fall? He’d always had them, they weren’t anything new, so no real con there. It was a price he would’ve _gladly_ paid.

A price he _had_ paid when he’d come back to Gotham and found out. It didn’t matter that she’d disappeared and wasn’t necessarily dead. She was still _gone,_ and her hellhole had been closed. It was nothing but an abandoned shell of what it’d used to be.

And all because of _Jason._ Not that anyone had said that, but Numbers was sure that was the case. The truth about Ma Gunn had come out shortly after Jason had been taken in by the Waynes, when there’d been talks about adoption. With the timing of everything, it was just—there was no proof, and Numbers knew that there’d never _be_ any proof, but he was _sure_ it was the Wayne Family’s doing.

Which made no objective sense. There was no reason for the Wayne Family to interfere like that. They’d _never_ interfered like that. Their lack of tolerance for child victims didn’t extend outside their Family or territory, and there was no reason for that to change when they weren’t expanding their influence.

Unless they cared. And they did, Numbers was certain of it. They cared enough about Jason to protect him from the media, and they cared enough to seek revenge on his behalf. The _cold_ tone Mr. Pennyworth’s voice had taken on was confirmation of it.

“Yeah— _yes._ I do,” he blurted out when he realized he hadn’t answered, too lost in his thoughts. “You don’t—I mean, I’d appreciate it if you could let him know I was here, _really_ appreciate it, but…”

But what? But he didn’t have to? What did it matter for Numbers to say that? He had no power here. Had less than no power. Mr. Pennyworth would do whatever he wanted, and Numbers couldn’t say jack shit about it.

_“I don’t believe,”_ Mr. Pennyworth cut in when Numbers didn’t continue, _“that it would be a good idea for Master Jason to be reminded of his time there.”_

Yeah.

Yeah, of course not. Why would—why would they want to remind Jason of his time at Ma Gunn’s? If the Waynes cared about Jason at all, and a lot of things pointed to that, then they’d do everything to make sure Jason would never be reminded of anything.

His parents had been the same way, walking on eggshells around him when he’d gotten out, almost desperate in their attempts to not remind him of what’d happened, in their attempts to act like nothing _had_ happen. Like his time at Ma Gunn’s hadn’t been real, like none of it had been, and it’d be so _frustrating,_ but what could he do? He’d brought it upon himself, and they’d aged so _much_ worrying over him. They were only trying to protect him, so what could he do?

They’d been so against him coming back to Gotham. They hadn’t even wanted him to come back for the retrial when it’d broke out that Ma Gunn had had almost all of the judges in Gotham in her pocket, including his. They’d only caved in the end because he _had_ to be present for the retrial, and it was the only way to clear his record.

So, how could he expect anything less from the Waynes?

And, well, Numbers really should’ve expected it, if not from the Waynes, then from Jason himself. The whole abandonment thing aside, he was a reminder of a past he probably wanted to forget. And Numbers got that, he did! He’d made things so much harder for Jason back then. The least he could do now, when he was finally capable of _doing_ something for him, was stay away and let sleeping dogs lie.

It’d—it’d be nice if he could see Jason, but hadn’t he already decided that he didn’t have to see him? That knowing would be enough? What, now that it really wasn’t going to happen, he changed his mind? He hated that sort of false… false modesty or whatever it’d be called. He’d decided he didn’t need to see Jason, and he’d stick by that decision.

Besides, he’d be seeing him across all sorts of media platforms anyway. The Waynes might’ve managed to keep the bulk of the journalists and paparazzi away from Jason so far, but sooner or later, there’d be photos of him circulating. Numbers could live with that. He could _more than_ live with that. If he could see Jason in whatever capacity was afforded to him, he’d be content. Knowing that Jason was alive was more than enough, he didn’t need to actually see him face-to-face. He didn’t need to talk to him or reconnect.

He shook his head, stammering when he realized he’d once again been silent too long, “No, I—I completely understand. If—if it’s best for Jason to not see me, I’d get that. I’d _respect_ that.”

It wasn’t like he knew Jason all that well anyway. The Waynes had been with him longer. They’d know him better, especially better than someone who hadn’t spoken to Jason in what, seven, eight years? He’d never really known what would be best for Jason all those years ago, why would that change now? After all these years without contact?

Yeah, it’d be for the best that he didn’t meet Jason, and really, what did that matter anyway? It wasn’t—it wasn’t like—

He’d gotten what he’d come for. Jason was _alive._ Meeting him after all these years, after all these _silent_ years, that’d be asking for too much.

“Thank—” He cleared his throat again. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pennyworth. And, um, confirming that Jason’s alive. I—I really appreciate it.”

_“Of course, sir,”_ Mr. Pennyworth said, like he actually cared, and maybe he did, out of politeness if nothing else. _“Is there anything else I can help you with?”_

“No, I’m—I’m good.”

He was. He _was._

He was even still alive. Numbers honestly hadn’t expected it. The Waynes didn’t get to where they were by being merciful, but Mr. Pennyworth had let him walk away, no fuss, no muss, and no one followed him. Not that Numbers was the best person to notice. Even on a normal day, he wasn’t the best at noticing when he was being tailed, and this was as far from a normal day as a day could get.

Or maybe they were waiting for him to put his guard down. Maybe they were going to kill him later. They shouldn’t bother in that case. No way his guard could get any lower. He felt like he was walking through a haze. Someone could literally be right up against his back, ready to knife him, and he wouldn’t notice.

People side-eyed him as he walked past, most deliberately steering clear of him, less in a wary way and more in a judgmental way, like they thought they’d catch whatever he had if they got too close.

All the better. He didn’t want to deal with people right now, barely wanted to deal with _himself._

Jason was alive. Numbers didn’t know how, and he didn’t know what the last three years had been about, what that damn _video_ had been about, but he didn’t care. Jason was _alive._

He’d also probably never see him again.

_Don’t be fucking stupid, Numbers. Soon as you’re outta here, you forget everything, you hear? You don’t know no Ma Gunn, and you don’t know **me.** Once you’re out, you **stay** out. Smart guy like you, you’ll fuck yourself over if you hang ’round us gutter rats._

“You stupid _idiot,_ ” Numbers muttered, and _crap,_ his eyes burned. He stepped aside and pressed his body against the side of a building to get out of people’s way as he wiped at his eyes.

As if he could ever forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, when I realized that oh fuck, this is becoming a chapter fic: ._.
> 
> Fun fact: I actually had it in my head that Numbers kinda viewed Jason as his sun during his time at Ma Gunn’s, so when I found this fic’s quote, it was almost like fate.
> 
> Anyway, I’m not sure if the Anxiety tag really fits? Numbers turned out to be quite a nervous rambler, which you’ll see later if you can’t tell already, and I didn’t know how to tag for that other than Anxiety. If it doesn’t fit, or if there’s a tag that’d fit better, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Also, I deliberately chose “No Archive Warnings Apply” because all the rape/non-con stuff happened in the past, and this fic is neither really _about_ that and won’t really be dealing with the aftermath/recovery of those events. I figured it’d be enough to warn for them in the tags. If that’s not the case, please let me know, and I’ll correct it.


	2. Chapter 2

It’d been over a week, and Numbers was still as off-kilter as he’d been the day he’d visited Wayne Manor. He didn’t know why he was in it to begin with or why he was _still_ in it. It wasn’t like he’d really expected anything. He hadn’t even believed the headlines at first no matter how many articles had said the same damn thing. So really, he’d gotten more than he’d expected, so he shouldn’t be feeling like this. He should—he should be _happy_ that Jason was alive.

And he was. He _was._ He was also obsessively checking every newspaper, article, and news station in Gotham _and_ any tag on Twitter that looked like it could be about Jason, but that was beside the point. He was happy.

It’d be nice, though, if he could find something, _anything,_ on Jason. Somehow, the Waynes had _still_ kept the media at bay and away from Jason.

Or it could be Jason. Even before the Wayne Family, Jason had been _good_ at hiding. No one could find him if he didn’t want to be found, and nothing could lure him out into the open.

Almost nothing.

Numbers rubbed his eyes to try and ease the strain in them. The latest tag he’d stalked had seemed promising, but they were all speculation. No pictures, videos, links to articles, interviews, quotes, _anything._

He should’ve known better than to get his hopes up.

With a sigh, he closed out of Twitter. He needed to get back to work. If Mr. Cobblepot saw him on Twitter while he was on the clock, he’d be pissed _and_ suspicious, and for all that Mr. Cobblepot supposedly didn’t engage in criminal activities himself, Numbers had also never met or heard of any of the Lounge’s former employees. Now wasn’t the time to test his hypothesis, _especially_ if he was using himself as the variable.

His office phone rang.

Numbers jumped in his chair and slapped his hands on his desk _hard_ when he flailed and reached out to steady himself. And for no reason. He hadn’t been in danger of falling.

He answered the phone on speaker as he shook out his stinging hands.

“Joel Eppes speaking.”

_“Joey, my boy!”_ Mr. Cobblepot greeted, and Numbers blinked and mouthed _Joey_ because what? No one had ever called him Joey before. He’d never _gone_ by Joey before, and he’d never considered it either.

A quick double-check of his caller ID confirmed that it really was Mr. Cobblepot, which made even less sense. Mr. Cobblepot sounded _happy_ to talk to him, and while he was good at what he did, Mr. Cobblepot had never sounded like that near him, and he’d never called him “my boy.”

_“Come into my office for a bit, we’ve got a visitor.”_

He stared dumbfoundedly at his phone, the words not clicking in his head, and then scrambled for the phone when he realized _the call was still going._

“Yes! Yes, sir, I’ll be there in five minutes.” And before Mr. Cobblepot could reply, he quickly hung up.

He’d probably pay for that later, but it was unexpectedly creepy to have Mr. Cobblepot faking friendliness to him. They weren’t close. He was pretty sure he annoyed Mr. Cobblepot with his occasional—not _stuttering,_ it wasn’t exactly stuttering, but his rambling. The only reason he hadn’t been fired yet was because he was good at what he did, and it took time to train people, especially to Mr. Cobblepot’s exacting standards

No point in wasting time and money on that when there was someone already here who could do that job, annoying as that someone was.

Why Mr. Cobblepot wanted to see him now, why “we” had a visitor, why _Joey,_ Numbers didn’t know. It was probably another mob boss wanting information, or they needed his brand of expertise and Mr. Cobblepot was selling his services—

Which… sounded like sex work. It wasn’t. Just. Contractual work. Contractual work that wasn’t exactly done willingly since he himself couldn’t decide whether or not to do it, but that was getting beside the point.

What exactly the point was, he didn’t remember. All the more evidence that he really needed more sleep.

The five minutes turned out to be a mistake, namely because it took longer than expected to lock up his computer and office—he didn’t why it always took him by surprise, he’d been doing it for years now—and Mr. Cobblepot’s office was far from his own. When he finally arrived, he only knocked on the door once before it was yanked open.

Numbers jerked away, but he didn’t get far before he was pulled into a one-armed hug.

“There you are, Joey!”

He went _stiff_ against Mr. Cobblepot, partially because he _really_ didn’t like people touching him out of the blue like this and partially because he was so damn baffled and confused. What the hell was going on? Was this supposed to be a threat? It felt like a threat.

“What took you so long?”

Definitely a threat.

“Sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, I had to secure my office before—” His eyes shifted, and he promptly choked on his words.

The First Son.

“Joel Eppes, right?” Dick Grayson— _Dick Grayson!_ —asked, standing up from his chair and offering a hand for a shake.

He could feel the nervous laughter bubbling up his throat.

Dick Grayson knew his name.

It shouldn’t have caught him off guard, especially when _he_ had been the one to give the Waynes his name, but that didn’t change the litany of _Dick Grayson knows my name_ clamoring in his head.

He hadn’t escaped Wayne Manor unscathed, after all.

The near bone-crushing grip on his shoulder said he’d _better_ accept that handshake if he wanted to live to see tomorrow.

“Yes,” he squeaked, stepping forward—away from Mr. Cobblepot, so _one_ good thing to come of this suicidal move—to take Mr. Grayson’s hand. “I’m—I’m Joel Eppes. It’s nice to meet you, uh, sir.”

And then he shook the hand of someone _known_ for beating people to death with his bare hands. That he got away from the interaction without getting his hand crushed was something of a surprise.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Mr. Grayson replied, smiling, and it was such a mindfuck. He looked so _normal._ Or, well, he didn’t _look_ normal, he was actually really good-looking, but ultimately, he seemed like just any other guy guy.

But for all that Numbers couldn’t prove anything, for all that _no one_ could prove anything, everyone knew the monster that lurked under that smile. Dick Grayson could smile like a normal person as long as he liked, but no one was going to forget that he’d single-handedly taken down the Maronis as a _child_ or that he was one of the boogeymen of Gotham’s underworld. There were plenty stories of him breaking into people’s homes, their security be damned, and leaving no trace of his presence behind save for whatever warning or corpse he deigned to give.

No Gothamite with any sense would be fooled.

At least, no one in the East End. He didn’t know how the upper crust did things. As far as he knew, they kept inviting the Waynes to their functions and parties as if Mr. Wayne was one of them, and Numbers supposed he was—he _was_ a billionaire—but he was also a _mob boss,_ which Numbers felt was the more important trait between the two.

He didn’t know if it was a rich people thing, a bloodline thing, a false sense of invulnerability, or some mind-boggling combination of all of the above.

Mr. Cobblepot slapped his back hard. Numbers cringed from the sting of it.

“He’s the best guy I have,” he said, _boasted,_ and Numbers _just_ managed to keep himself from doing a double-take. They both knew that he was good at what he did, it was about the only reason he was still employed—still alive?—but Mr. Cobblepot had never actually acknowledged that. He never acknowledged _anyone’s_ worth, it wasn’t his thing.

“To buy out his entire contract,” he continued, and Numbers _did_ do a double-take then because _what,_ “I’d have to say it’d cost you at _least_ a hundred grand. I’d just be losing too much with him gone.”

Buy out— _buy out?_ This wasn’t another one of those contract gigs?

Actually, no, wait, was this even a thing? Had it _ever_ been a thing outside of fiction?

Mr. Grayson laughed, sounding genuinely amused. Numbers couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not, but he curled a little inward nonetheless, trying to take as little space as he could.

“A little much for a number cruncher, don’t you think, Penguin?”

… Holy _shit,_ he’d actually called Mr. Cobblepot that to his face.

“Tell you what, he’s paid… fifty annually?”

More like thirty-six. Which was still a lot! He was making more than the minimum wage, so he couldn’t really complain, especially considering that he only had a high school diploma to his name. Sure, his studio was _really_ shitty, and he was living paycheck-to-paycheck, but he’d never had to choose between rent or food. It was more than what a lot of people could say.

“More like sixty,” Mr. Cobblepot corrected. “I pay my employees well. It’d be higher if the boy actually had a degree or certificate.”

Mr. Grayson scoffed. “Now, see, that’s actually insulting. You think we haven’t done our research?”

At his side, Mr. Cobblepot didn’t stiffen, he wasn’t that bad a poker player, but if Numbers had to guess, it was a near thing.

“Here we were, about to be _generous_ and pay fifty grand plus however much was left in his contract for the year, and here _you_ are, lying to me to my face and not that well at that.” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “I think I’m offended.”

“Dick—”

“So, new deal, Penguin: I let you live, you give us Eppes.”

You could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet.

And then, for a reason Numbers couldn’t _begin_ to fathom, Mr. Cobblepot got _indignant._

“Listen here, _Dickie_ —”

Numbers didn’t see him move, but he must’ve registered it on some level because he’d flinched away. By the time he realized that he’d moved, Mr. Grayson was standing where he once was, his hand around Mr. Cobblepot’s throat.

He was—he was almost _literally_ lifting Mr. Cobblepot up by the throat. _With one hand._

It was really, _really_ impressive. Terrifying, of course, but also impressive.

“I’m starting to run out of generosity, Penguin,” Mr. Grayson said lightly. “Your life for your underpaid, overworked boy here. That’s not that hard a choice to make, is it?” His grip visibly tightened. “I can make it even easier for you if you need me to.”

He was wearing leather gloves, and his arms were covered with those sporty arm sleeves that, from the looks of it, perfectly protected his arm as Mr. Cobblepot scrambled and clawed at him, trying to get free.

He’d come prepared for this. He’d come prepared to strangle someone.

“Well?”

“Life,” Mr. Cobblepot choked out, red in the face and so _angry._ “ _Life._ ”

Mr. Grayson let him go.

“It was nice doing business with you, Penguin,” Mr. Grayson said, smiling, like he’d negotiated a good business deal between them both instead of nearly choking the life out of him. “If you would, I’d like to speak to our new employee privately.”

_New employee._

The urge to laugh nervously was back, but Numbers managed to swallow it down. Now was definitely not the time for it.

Mr. Cobblepot coughed, glaring at Mr. Grayson, but he left the room without a word. Left Numbers alone in the room with _the First Son._

Who turned and gave him a once-over.

“So, _you’re_ Numbers.”

A mocking tone, but Numbers was used to that. People had been making fun of him since forever.

“Yes!” he meeped out. Then closed his eyes shut because _why_ did his body have to choose _now_ of all times to break his voice like he was going through puberty all over again? “I mean, yes. Sir. Yes, sir.”

Mr. Grayson walked toward him— _stalked_ toward him—and it was all Numbers could do to stay still, to not shake or fall to the ground, as he circled around him.

He’d never related this hard to a prey animal before.

“Interesting how one of _Penguin’s_ employees suddenly turns out to know one of the Family.”

Shit.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought they could use past connections to get to us, but you know”—Mr. Grayson stopped behind him, and Numbers didn’t dare turn, didn’t _dare_ —“we don’t appreciate _Jason_ being targeted for that. He takes things to heart a little too easily.”

Shit, shit, _shit,_ he hadn’t thought of that. He _should’ve._ Of _course_ the Wayne Family would be skeptical of him. Mr. Cobblepot had been trying to get an in with the Waynes for _years._ Over a decade for sure, possibly longer. No way the Waynes wouldn’t know about that or jump to that conclusion when he’d surfaced after years and years of no contact.

“Sibyl said you were legit, but then, loyalties sway so easily.”

Something pressed against the base of his spine, something hard and vaguely cylindrical. Numbers desperately, ridiculously hoped that it was a hair straightener or something similar, but he knew better than to actually believe that. The First Son wouldn’t waste his time with false threats or fake weapons.

And then, because his loyalty to Jason was being questioned and because his mouth apparently saw no need to retain any shred of self-preservation after he’d already dug his own grave, he blurted out, “No, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t betray Jason. _I wouldn’t._ ”

Jason had been like the sun in the hellhole that was Ma Gunn’s, which probably didn’t work quite that well as a metaphor because a sun in hell sounded like a worse kind of hell, but that was hardly the point. It’d been _Jason_ who’d saved him, who’d held out a hand to help him instead of beating the shit out of him to keep from being seen as weak and being beaten himself. It’d been _Jason_ who’d kept him smiling and laughing. Jason, who’d always been brave and strong and _just_ and who’d _liked_ hearing Numbers talking about school and math. He’d never once mocked Numbers for being such a nerd. He’d been _impressed_ and had asked questions and wanted to learn _more._

For all his anger and bluster, he’d been so compassionate. He’d kept trying in a place where trying was pointless, and Numbers would’ve given up ever getting out if it weren’t for him.

“So, _that’s_ how it is.”

Oh, that did not sound good.

“Now that brings a whole _host_ of different problems, Eppes.”

That sounded _worse._

“See, here’s the thing”—the gun pressed harder—“I don’t appreciate people looking at my _baby brother_ that way. I’m told, though, that I can’t exactly off everyone who does, so you’re going to leave—”

“No.”

A pause. Then, “No?”

He took a shaky breath.

“No.”

Scared as he was, _terrified_ as he was, there was only one way he could ever respond to this, only one thing he could ever do in response. It wasn’t even a _question._

He’d left Jason once. Just threw him out of his life and look where that’d gotten him. It was shit of him to only _now_ learn that lesson, to need Jason to fake his death to learn that lesson, but he’d _learned_ it, and he wasn’t going to give him up again.

If he was going to die either way, he wanted to die without compromising that. They’d probably tell Jason that he’d run off in the night or something, if they told him anything at all, but.

But he _hadn’t._ Even if Jason would never know, _he_ would. He’d have that if nothing else.

“What the actual _fuck,_ Dickbag?”

Dick—

He choked on air. _Dickbag?_ Who in the _world_ had the—had the sheer lack of self-preservation to call _the First Son_ Dickbag?

A man was climbing in from the window—why the window, _how_ the window?—and Numbers assumed he was the back-up. Not that the First Son had ever needed one to Numbers’s recollection, but he didn’t know everything about the Waynes. Maybe the man was the muscle in this operation or a bodyguard or something, his partner-in-crime.

But then he got inside and straightened, and Numbers saw his face.

The floor disappeared from beneath his feet.

He _knew_ that face.

He was older now— _see, he hadn’t died, he was **alive**_ —and taller and more muscular, almost nothing like he’d been back when they’d been kids, but Numbers would recognize that face anywhere.

“Jason.” It came out warbled, like he’d been shanked and was drowning in his own blood, but he didn’t _care._ Jason was here. He was here and alive and _here._

Jason didn’t pay much attention to him, though, dark eyes glaring at the First Son behind him.

“Calm your fucking tits, D—”

Numbers choked again, but he couldn’t tell if it was out of shock or on a laugh. Of course that was how Jason talked to the First Son. Of course.

“—and stop threatening him. Even _if_ we weren’t friends, I owe him.”

They were—they were _friends._ Jason still thought of them as friends.

Aw, no, he couldn’t cry now, not in front of Dick Grayson of all people.

But then, well, it wasn’t every day that one reunited with—with the friend they’d thought was murdered. A little bit of crying should be okay.

He rubbed his eyes

“You don’t owe me shit, Jason,” he managed to get out with a laugh that was admittedly a touch hysterical. “You never have.”

If anything, _he_ owed _Jason._ Owed him anything and everything, owed him more than he’d ever be able to pay back.

And now he might have a chance to at least _try._

Jason rolled his eyes. “You took a shot for me when we were kids.”

“It was just rock salt.”

There’d been a riot, and Ma Gunn had personally come when things had died down, demanding to know who’d started it. And maybe no one would’ve said anything—they’d never snitch, and they’d all hated Ma Gunn—but then she’d turned off the power. She’d come by every day, the power coming back on heralding her arrival, and she’d ask the same damn question, and when they’d all inevitably refused to answer, the power would turn back off as she left.

It would’ve only been a matter of time before someone broke, so Numbers had admitted to it without hesitation and had taken a round of rock salt to the chest.

Jason had bandaged him up, ragging on him for doing something so stupid as if _he_ hadn’t done something equally stupid when he’d broken into the infirmary for a couple of bandages that Numbers could’ve gone without.

He couldn’t believe Jason still remembered that.

Mr. Grayson hummed, and the gun disappeared from his back, but Numbers hardly noticed.

“Well, in that case, I guess it’d be rude of us to skin you alive and drown you in saltwater.”

Jason frowned before Numbers could react. “He’s a _friend,_ so fuck off with the psychological bull.”

“A friend.” Even from behind, Mr. Grayson’s _look_ pinned him into place, and that prey feeling was back with a vengeance. “I have _nothing_ against your friends, Little Wing—”

Little Wing?

“—you know that.”

But Jason’s frown only grew deeper, angrier. Numbers knew that look.

“Getting _real_ tired of your overprotective routine, D-bag.”

“Aw, I’m only looking out for you, Little Wing.” Mr. Grayson walked out from behind Numbers to stand by Jason. He was smiling, but Numbers couldn’t tell if there was any difference between it and the smile he’d given Mr. Cobblepot. He couldn’t tell what he thought of Jason. It was part of what made him so dangerous: You never knew what he thought of you, if he’d break you to pieces or spare you.

Except, he must have _some_ affection for Jason, or something resembling it, right? Before Jason had come, Mr. Grayson had been ready to kill him for—

Well, the why of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like it was a possibility.

“I don’t need no looking after,” Jason retorted with a scoff, “and sure as hell not from _Numbers._ ”

Whether that was from past trust or because Numbers honestly couldn’t pose a threat to a _rock_ much less to Jason, who’d always been able to hold his own in a fight and who looked like he worked out regularly— _stop looking, Mr. Grayson’s **right there**_ —he didn’t know.

“He’s one of Penguin’s,” Grayson reminded him because of _course_ he was never going to let that go. Why would he? He was justified in suspecting him.

“Yeah, what the fuck’s up with that?” Jason turned his righteous anger to Numbers. “What happened to college?”

_You **died,**_ Numbers wanted to say. College hadn’t mattered after that.

It’d never really been something he’d wanted anyway, just something that’d been such an expected part of his future that it’d never occurred to him that it didn’t _have_ to be. And when Jason had died, _when he’d seen that video,_ it’d seemed like such a useless thing to do. A waste of time.

“There was something more important I had to do,” he replied instead. It came out as a whisper. Numbers wondered if Jason would read into it, if he’d ask what exactly was so damn important that he’d given up the future they’d planned together when they’d been young and stupid and desperate to think about anything other than their situations.

Jason had never talked about his own future, that was something Numbers hadn’t realized until it was too late. They’d only ever talked about _his_ because Numbers had been the smart one, the one who actually _had_ the chance to make something of himself, Jason’s words, not his. Because Numbers had needed something to look forward to, that reminder that he’d be released soon, he just had to bear with things for a little bit longer.

After all that, how could he leave Jason to rot in some strange place away from his family? He deserved to come home, to have his body brought home and to get a proper burial.

He deserved more than an empty casket.

His parents hadn’t understood, but then, they hadn’t known about Jason, and Numbers had never told them. His memories of Jason hadn’t been something he’d wanted to share, not after their relationship had ended so abruptly. Not when his parents had treated his time at Ma Gunn’s like hell on earth, and it _had_ been, but.

But it wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to forget, nightmares or not. He’d _gladly_ welcome the nightmares, welcome every trauma there was to gain and then some, if only to keep what memories he had of Jason.

“Well, did you do it yet?” Jason asked, crossing his arms, but his tone had blunted, was less angry. Whatever Numbers’s face had done must’ve been pathetic enough to warrant mercy.

“Yeah,” Numbers answered, and he wanted to laugh again. Of course Jason wouldn’t realize that _he_ was the reason. He’d always had such a harsh perception of himself. He’d known how others saw him, what they thought of him, and he’d internalized it.

Another thing Numbers hadn’t realized until it was too late.

“Yeah, I did,” he repeated, and he couldn’t help the smile, but at least he wasn’t laughing. Bad enough he’d gotten on the Waynes’ bad side, no need to add “mentally unstable” to the list.

“Good.” A pause, and then, “But seriously, did you have to go work for _Cobblepot?_ ”

This time, he _did_ laugh. “He was my best bet short of actually joining the Gotham underworld.” And given that the Wayne Family basically _ruled_ the Gotham underworld, that wasn’t an option. He hadn’t known at the time how involved they’d been in Jason’s murder.

Although, from the way he’d been about to be murdered only a few minutes ago, Numbers was pretty sure the Wayne Family was definitely _not_ an option, though not for the reasons he’d originally thought.

“Guess it’s a bad time to remind you that we bought out your contract,” Mr. Grayson said with a sheepish smile, this tone almost apologetic. “You’re one of ours now.”

Numbers’s smile froze.

He’d heard enough threats during his time at Ma Gunn’s and at the Iceberg Lounge to recognize one. Jason apparently did, too, because he shot Mr. Grayson a sharp look.

“You’re free to do whatever the fuck you want, _period,_ ” he said with a note of stubborn finality, still glaring at Mr. Grayson. “You ain’t nobody’s.”

His heart thudded _hard_ in his chest.

Whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Come on, Little Wing, you _know_ B’s been wanting to meet him.”

“B can fuck off. Him and the rest of the Family. Keep threatening my friends, keep keeping _my own shit_ from me, I fucking _dare_ you—”

“Lunch!” he blurted out.

Both men turned to look at him with twin looks of incredulity.

“I mean, we, uh, we should catch up. Today. Over lunch.”

If the earth could just open beneath his feet and swallow him whole, he’d much appreciate it. No wonder Jason had had to take him under his wing at Ma Gunn’s. He wouldn’t have lasted a day otherwise.

Mr. Grayson’s stare went from vaguely judging to frigid hostility.

Numbers very deliberately did not look at him, keeping his focus entirely on Jason, who stared back at him with narrowed eyes.

Had he overstepped? He thought—lunch was a friend thing, wasn’t it? And they were friends, Jason had said so himself.

But it _was_ a little late for lunch. Maybe coffee would be better? He should’ve gone for coffee instead, it sounded like more of a catching-up thing than lunch, and it was possibly more time-appropriate. He wasn’t much of a coffee drinker—he didn’t drink enough water to begin with, no point in making things harder by adding coffee to the mix—but he could do coffee if that’d make Jason more comfortable. He’d stick to coffee and _only_ coffee if it’d make—

“Sure,” Jason finally answered, looking away, and—

And his ears were a little red.

His—his ears were red.

“Cool,” he squeaked out, and thank _fuck_ Jason wasn’t looking his way because he could feel _his_ face burning. You could probably see it from _space,_ it was that bad.

“Where to?” Mr. Grayson asked bitingly, and—

Wow, there was no faster way to cool your face down than to have a very frightening human glare murder at you.

“Um.”

“Stella’s is around the corner,” Jason said, elbowing Mr. Grayson in the side without looking at him, focusing instead on Numbers. That redness was gone. “That alright with you?”

As if he wouldn’t follow Jason anywhere. As if he wouldn’t go anywhere if he could just have a few more—

Okay, he needed to stop thinking now, he was starting to get sappy.

He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, of course.”

No way he could’ve answered any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pacing’s just a _bit_ wonky on this one, I think, specifically the scene with Penguin, but I’m more or less satisfied with how this turned out.
> 
> As I’ve edited the remaining chapters, I’ve added a few more tags that I didn’t think to include when I’d first posted this fic. **_However,_** this fic should’ve been adequately tagged for warnings from the get-go, so any additional tags shouldn’t include any trigger warnings or things of that nature.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the chapter that made me realize that I needed more tags.

Stella’s had terrible coffee, and Numbers was pretty sure he’d killed more than half his taste buds in just the first sip, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The world could be falling apart at the seams, and he still wouldn’t be able to give a shit, not with Jason here, sitting across from him, alive and _grown._

The very same Jason who jerked forward and spat his coffee back into his mug. “Holy _shit,_ what the fuck did I just drink?”

Numbers choked on a laugh. Luckily, he hadn’t been in the middle of a sip, so he didn’t make as big an embarrassment of himself as he could’ve.

“What _happened_ to Stella’s?” Jason continued, affronted and betrayed.

“They changed hands about a year and a half ago,” Mr. Grayson replied absently, looking through the menu. He looked nonchalant, like all this was normal, but his foot was also on top of Numbers’s, his heel right over his toes, an ever-present threat of them being crushed if he said even half a word wrong.

It was probably really fucked up of him, and _definitely_ indicative of how he should’ve found himself a new therapist when he’d moved to Gotham, that he found it nostalgic, being with Jason with the possibility of injury hanging over him.

The foot above his jerked away suddenly, but when Numbers looked up, Mr. Grayson didn’t show any signs of something being wrong.

Jason, though, was glaring at him and—

And started speaking in another language, which.

Okay, _wow,_ that was—that was not something he was going to think about right now, _nope._ Didn’t realize that was a—but he wasn’t thinking about it! This was just a catch-up session between friends. Old friends who’d fallen out of touch with each other if what happened between them could be called that, but ultimately just _friends._

With a very homicidal brother tagging along.

Who was watching him now.

Numbers looked away and willed his face to cool down _stat._

Jason said something in what sounded to him a _highly_ annoyed tone and then elbowed Mr. Grayson’s side, but Mr. Grayson didn’t look away from Numbers, even as he was replying to Jason.

Not that he noticed, like, visually. Because he didn’t. He wasn’t looking in their direction at all. He just—he just had good hearing.

“You okay, Numbers?”

“Yup!” he replied on automatic, jumping at being dragged into the conversation so suddenly, the word coming out a little too high-pitched. He wanted to shut his eyes and will himself out of existence because _why?_ Sure, he hadn’t always been so kind of his body, but _come on,_ why did it have to insist on betraying him like this? And in front of _Jason?_

Jason narrowed his eyes, all suspicion, but there was amusement in there, too, and Numbers remembered with a jolt that Jason used to find him funny. He’d never laughed _at_ him, but at the things he’d _done._ At his jokes. He’d genuinely found Numbers funny, like he _hadn’t_ been the type of kid who’d be the butt of every joke.

Like he _still_ wasn’t the type of guy who’d be the butt of every joke.

He’d forgotten that.

~~How much more had he forgotten?~~

“Don’t mind him,” Jason told him, and Numbers might’ve laughed at that if he wasn’t still trying to calm himself down. How do you _not_ mind _Dick Grayson?_ He’d have an easier time ignoring an alligator that’d been locked in the same room as him. “He won’t hurt you, _will he?_ ”

The last bit wasn’t directed at him, and Numbers turned his attention back to the menu, not wanting to get involved in _that_ conversation.

Of course, Jason could stand up to the Waynes, to even the First Son. This was _Jason._ He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t let something like fear stop him. He wouldn’t let threat of injury or death or _worse_ stop him.

Their waitress came for their order, standing a little too close to Numbers, but he didn’t begrudge her, not when her entire body shook, her shoulders bunched up high as she made herself look smaller and _desperately_ tried to not look at Mr. Grayson.

This wasn’t the East End, but it was close enough that there was no way for anyone to mistake who Dick Grayson was. The customers who’d been inside had booked it when they’d realized that they were here, and Numbers was pretty sure the only reason the staff hadn’t was because Mr. Grayson had come here to eat and no one wanted to risk not serving him.

“I’ll have the blue pancake special please,” Mr. Grayson said with a comforting smile, handing his menu to the waitress.

“Ye-yes, sir,” she stuttered, and Numbers could see her trying to convince herself to take the menu from him, to get just that little bit closer to the First Son.

Jason elbowed Mr. Grayson again. She jolted at that and stared at Jason in shock.

“Chicken and waffles please,” Jason said, taking the menu from Mr. Grayson’s hand and handing both it and his own menu to the waitress.

“The hash brown breakfast bowl, please and thank you,” Numbers told the waitress, waiting until she’d taken the other menus before giving her his own.

Their waitress— _Alina,_ her nametag read—stammered an assurance that their order would be out quickly, not wasting the time to write down their orders before leaving quickly.

Numbers winced and resolved to give her a really good tip.

“So, Numbers,” Mr. Grayson said, leaning forward with his arms on the table, and Jason gave him a sharp look, a warning, “what _was_ that important thing you had to do?”

A nervous giggle—not even a laugh, a _giggle_ —bubbled out of his mouth. Somehow, he doubted he’d get away with claiming that it was a little too personal to share. Just a hunch.

“I, um—it.”

He must’ve looked pathetic or panicked enough because Jason’s sharp look got _sharper,_ and he barked out something in what Numbers was about 80% sure was the same language as before.

Oh shit, he could feel his face heat up again, which, okay, at least Jason didn’t see it— _but what if he did,_ fuck, peripheral vision was a thing, how good was Jason’s peripheral vision?—but _Mr. Grayson could,_ and then he was looking at Numbers with murder eyes again.

Numbers sunk lower into his seat.

Jason grew angrier, and under any other circumstances, Numbers would’ve appreciated Jason having his back, but he’d gotten angry in response to _Numbers’s_ reaction, which meant his peripheral vision _was_ good enough to see his reaction to him speaking in a different language, and _please,_ someone put him out his misery, even _he_ hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Jason asked, disappointingly in English, giving Mr. Grayson one last glare before turning his attention to Numbers. 

“What am I going to what now?” Numbers replied, confused.

Jason rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem annoyed that Numbers wasn’t following. “You’re not one of Penguin’s anymore, so what now?”

“You’re always welcome with us,” Mr. Grayson piped in. He shrugged. “I mean, you’re kinda already one of us.”

“He’s not of ours, Dickbag,” Jason retorted with a vicious scowl that edged toward a snarl. “He’s off-limits.”

Mr. Grayson put his hands up in surrender in response, a placating if amused smile playing at his lips.

“Um, I, uh, I’m not sure what I want to do, so thank you for the offer, Mr. Grayson,” Numbers replied because if nothing else, he should probably thank him for it, right? “I’ll keep it in mind?”

Mr. Grayson blinked. Then tilted his head a little to the side, eyes on him, assessing. Reassessing? Was that a good sign or a spectacularly bad one?

“Like fuck you’ll keep it in mind,” Jason said, sounding _highly_ offended. “Why would you—why would you keep a _mobster’s_ offer in mind, you dumbass! What about your parents? How’re you gonna explain to them their only kid’s a criminal?”

“I wouldn’t be a criminal, just… criminal adjacent.” Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Numbers winced. Not his best argument.

“Close enough! Whatever they thought of you working for Penguin, it’d be _worse_ with us.”

They didn’t know he was working for— _had_ worked for—Mr. Cobblepot, actually. He’d never told them, only that he was going back to Gotham, and that’d been the straw that’d broken the camel’s back.

They’d just—they’d tried so _hard_ to help him when he’d first gotten out, he knew that and could see it in retrospect. At the time, though, he’d been so _blind_ to it, so caught up in his own head and emotions. He’d fought with them every step of the way, beyond frustrated with how the way they were treating him, like he was made of fragile glass that’d already broken and that they’d been lucky enough to just barely piece together.

And the way they’d refused to actually _talk_ to him about his time at Ma Gunn’s. They’d never asked or tried to understand. It’d felt like they were ashamed of him, like it was _his_ fault for being sentenced to Ma Gunn’s, and as time wore on, the whirlpool of shame and guilt had morphed into anger. He’d sooner gut himself open than go back to Ma Gunn’s, but he’d _never_ want to change what’d happened, how _dare_ they look at his time there as—as something that needed to be wiped from his history?

To this day, he absolutely _hated_ the way they’d viewed his time at Ma Gunn’s and the other kids there, like there was nothing redeemable about those kids, as if _their_ judges hadn’t been as deep in Ma Gunn’s pocket as his had been. As if Jason had _deserved_ to be there, that he was as bad as the worst of the kids there, and yeah, Numbers never found out the details of why Jason had ended up at Ma Gunn’s, but he knew it wasn’t bad. Jason wasn’t like that. He didn’t deserve their—their _scorn._

Except if they looked down on Jason at all, it was also because of _him._ He knew better now. He knew that he’d contributed to that communication fail when he’d refused to talk to them about Jason, wanting to keep those fragile, intimate memories to himself.

Knowing better, though, didn’t repair their relationship. They still didn’t understand why he’d done the things he had. They still didn’t understand why he’d _had_ to come back to Gotham, why he’d decided against going to college, and Numbers still couldn’t dredge up the nerve to tell them about Jason.

It didn’t help, the way they talked about his future. The whole college thing aside, which was a whole ’nother can of worms, they’d talk about how he’d understand when he had kids. They’d talk about girlfriends and grandkids, how he just hadn’t met the right girl yet, and Numbers just.

He didn’t know how to explain to them that he wasn’t interested, that he’d never been interested in anyone except Jason. There was of a language barrier that he didn’t know how to overcome. He didn’t know where to even _begin,_ especially when he didn’t know how they’d take it.

Jason hesitated, and Numbers blinked, not having expected it. He never thought he’d see Jason hesitate. _Hesitation gets you dead,_ he’d said time and time again when he’d tried to teach Numbers how to fight. Tried and failed badly. Numbers had been a poor athlete and an even poorer fighter.

He must’ve realized that he’d stepped on a mine, probably because of Numbers’s face. He’d never been all that great at subtle.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that,” Jason mumbled, hunching his shoulders, regretful and uncertain. “Wasn’t fair of me.”

“No, I—” Numbers let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated?”

That was one way to put it.

“What about you? What’re you going to do now that you’re back?” he asked, almost desperate to change the subject.

_Now that you’re back._ What a hilarious way of putting things. He didn’t know the details of what’d actually happened or why, but surely, it was over now. Jason was back, so whatever his reason for leaving—for, what, faking his death?—had to be over now.

Jason cleared his throat. “I’ve, uh, actually been thinking of going to college.”

“To _college?_ ”

Mr. Grayson almost visibly bristled, possibly because Numbers’s tone had _not_ come out well, shit, he should’ve said that differently, but Jason only nodded, not taking offense. That faith was so, so warming. He’d never expected Jason to notice, much less remember, the way he’d steer the conversation away whenever Jason got self-deprecative about his minimal education. How could he do anything else when Jason had been so _knowledge-hungry?_

The way Jason would throw himself into learning, the sheer _dedication_ he had towards studying and improving himself, had always been awe-inspiring. When they’d first met, Jason could barely read, could barely add or subtract with double digits, and couldn’t multiply or divide at all, but Numbers had known with a certainty he’d rarely felt since then that if given half a chance, Jason would _make_ it. He’d prove _everyone_ wrong.

“Gotta get my GED first, though,” Jason added with a nonchalant shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t spoken of graduating high school and going to college with a wistfulness that’d stuck with Numbers even after all these years.

The offer to help was on the tip of his tongue, but Mr. Grayson’s smile dropped, and Numbers decided that now wasn’t the time to push. He didn’t know how much leeway he had with Jason being so in his corner—he was in _his_ corner, _Jason Todd_ was in _his_ corner—but he wasn’t going to waste what leeway he _did_ have by pushing for a stupid tutoring gig when he could use it for something else. Something more meaningful.

Even if the tutoring gig was already pretty damn meaningful.

“What’re you thinking of majoring in?” Numbers asked instead.

Which led to an in-depth discussion as Jason laid out his plans, eyes bright and smile wide. He had his eyes on a BA in Comparative Literature and had subsequently researched everything he could about the major, including the faculty at Gotham U and their areas of expertise.

Numbers couldn’t look away, couldn’t _not_ listen with every fiber of his being, so completely, pathetically captivated.

Comparative Literature suited Jason _perfectly._ He could imagine it, Jason sitting by a fireplace or maybe out on a balcony in what little sunlight that managed to get through Gotham’s almost perpetual smog, all cozied up with a good book in his lap and a cup of something steaming—coffee maybe?—at his side. Or maybe he’d be hunched over his book, utterly _hooked_ on what he was reading, the rest of the world fading into the background.

Jason was so excited that Numbers couldn’t help but be swept up in the excitement, too. He’d never seen Jason excited before. He’d liked listening to Numbers talk about school, about the things he knew and had learned, but it’d never been _excitement._

It was a good look on him. A _really_ good look.

Then again, everything was a good look on him.

He was so stupidly besotted.

Jason only cut himself short when their waitress—shit, what was her name, he’d _just_ read it, how could he forget already?—came by with their food.

What little could be said about the coffee at Stella’s—or a lot, depending on who was saying what—their food was pretty decent. Not something he’d go out of his way to get if he was honest, he wasn’t much a fan of breakfast foods, but it had a sizeable gluten-free menu for a fair price. It was something to keep in mind if he was ever in the area.

“Sounds like you’re all set,” Numbers said, taking a bite of his hash brown breakfast bowl. A bit bland in his opinion. He’d gotten too used to the Korean-Mexican fusion foods back home.

“There’s still more to figure out,” Jason contradicted with a shrug. “Payment, for one.”

Mr. Grayson frowned around his fork of pancake and swallowed. “What’s there to worry about? Bruce’ll cover everything.”

Bruce. As in Bruce _Wayne._ The mob boss. _The_ mob boss.

Right.

He’d been so preoccupied with Mr. Grayson that he’d forgotten that there was an even bigger, _badder_ Big Bad to worry about.

Jason scoffed. “No thanks, I can figure it out myself.”

“You know he’d give an arm and a leg to pay for your education. _Both_ arms and legs.”

Not necessarily _his_ arm and _his_ leg, but an arm and a leg nonetheless, Numbers thought around a forkful of hash brown, halfway to hysteric.

“I’m nineteen, I don’t—”

“Nineteen doesn’t make you any less his kid.”

Well.

On one hand, Numbers was so glad that Jason had a family, even if they were a mob. As far as he could tell, Jason had been alone basically all his life with no one to depend on. Numbers didn’t think it’d ever stop being a relief to hear that he’d been loved, that he’d been cared for and would _continue_ to be cared for.

On the other hand, Numbers had even more terrifying shovel talks coming his way.

Not—! Not because they were going to go out or anything, just. It was just that Waynes would be justifiably wary and suspicious of him given his former employer.

“I can pay for myself.”

“But you shouldn’t _have_ to. You’ve got other stuff to worry about that you won’t let him pay for.”

Rent and bills, if Numbers had to guess. Jason was independent, always so intent on doing things on his own. He wouldn’t stand for someone else basically making a kept man out of him.

Except Jason hissed and elbowed Mr. Grayson _hard_ in the ribs, and Numbers wondered if he’d misunderstood what Mr. Grayson had meant by “other stuff.” It seemed like an overreaction, but he couldn’t be sure.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Jason said, forcefully steering the conversation away, “what about you, Numbers? If you’re done with what you came here for and you don’t know what to do now, how about college?”

Numbers couldn’t help but flinch, keeping his eyes on his half-empty bowl and playing with his food.

College was about as complicated as his relationship with his parents.

The thing was, he liked math, always had, and he really liked the idea of learning more of it. Of studying it and specializing in a field of his choosing. And being surrounding by people who _also_ liked math? Who he could nerd with? It was super appealing.

But another part of him _loathed_ the idea of college. It felt like he was caving, like he was giving in to everyone’s expectations of him.

Not that that was their intention. He knew his parents hadn’t meant to, and neither had his grandparents or the rest of his extended family, but it was _really_ hard not to be a little resentful when everyone kept harping on his decision to not go to college, how he was so smart and it was a _waste_ for him not to go.

As if not going to college was a waste. As if everything he’d been doing was a _waste._ Which, okay, yeah, he’d concede that working for the Iceberg Lounge wasn’t the best decision he’d made or the healthiest, but that didn’t make it a waste. Spending years trying to find Jason, to solve his murder, hadn’t been a _waste,_ even if it’d turned out for nothing and Jason was alive, after all. It’d been important to him, it’d been what he’d _wanted_ to do, so what did it matter that he wasn’t continuing his education?

But things were different now. Jason wasn’t dead. He was here, alive, and Numbers didn’t have anything left anymore, so why not? It’d be a good idea, wouldn’t it? He could figure out what he wanted to do now that he was done chasing after Jason’s ghost, and everyone knew that GEDs weren’t enough anymore. You needed at least a bachelor’s if you wanted a decent job.

Perhaps more importantly, if he went to college, he could go to the same school as Jason. They might be a year or so apart depending on when Jason got his GED, but they’d be in the same school.

“You know what, yeah,” he breathed out, his hand stilling as he looked up at Jason, grinning. “Yeah, I think I’ll go. To college, I mean. I’m gonna apply for Gotham U, too.”

Mr. Grayson’s fork scraped across his plate, making a terrible, ear-splitting sound, but Numbers didn’t _care._ He wasn’t much of a humanities guy, not like Jason, so they probably wouldn’t have a lot of classes together, if any, and they _definitely_ probably wouldn’t be roommates, but they could study together. At worst, if they ended up drifting apart again, he might get to see Jason every now and then on campus.

Jason frowned. “Are you going just because _I’m_ going? What the fuck, Numbers, you can’t make life decisions like that.”

Numbers shrugged. “I was gonna stay in Gotham either way. College is a good idea while I figure my shit out, and Gotham U’s the best Gotham’s got.”

He wasn’t going to be swayed, not even by Jason. Unless Jason said he was being creepy, in which case he absolutely _would_ be swayed, but not before then. He’d _just_ gotten Jason back, and he was selfish enough to want to keep him for a little bit longer.

Even if it meant college.

“He’s right,” Mr. Grayson said, lowering the hand holding his fork. The hand holding his knife, however, was still up. “College is a big life decision. You shouldn’t make that choice so carelessly. You’re a math guy. Have you looked into MIT or Berkeley? Or maybe Stanford? You’d be closer to your parents.”

Static filled Numbers’s ears.

They knew where his parents lived.

Of course, they did. His background was suspicious, and he’d given them his full name, so of _course_ they’d do a background check on him. They would’ve found out where his parents lived _easily._ Why _wouldn’t_ they?

“What the _fuck,_ ” Jason snarled, twisting in his seat to face Mr. Grayson, looking and sounding pissed as all hell, ready to fight for Numbers on his behalf like he always had back at Ma Gunn’s.

And then, and _then,_ he spat out an angry stream of what sounded to Numbers like Russian.

His stomach twisted, and he quickly dropped his eyes to his mug and tried to stay as still as he could.

He was so, _so_ messed up in the head. He shouldn’t be finding _any_ of this hot when his parents had just been indirectly threatened, he _shouldn’t._

“Sorry, Numbers,” Jason said in English, shooting one last glare at Mr. Grayson, who only lifted his hands up in what was supposed to be a gesture of surrender but somehow felt nothing like it. “That wasn’t a threat. _No one’s_ touching your parents.”

Numbers believed him. Jason had never been one to involve bystanders. He’d always been of the belief that you should only ever go after your targets. Not their friends, not their loved ones. Just them.

“I want to stay in Gotham, and I want to go to Gotham U,” Numbers told him as sincerely as he could. His motivations for staying and attending Gotham U might, admittedly, not be the best, but so what? He wasn’t lying, he _did_ want to, and besides, it wasn’t like Gotham U was a bad university. He could do worse.

Wasn’t this what his twenties were for? To make stupid, heart-led mistakes? Not that this was going to be a mistake, but that was beside the point.

Jason eyed him, trying to see if he was lying.

“In that case, why don’t the two of you meet up with Babs?” Mr. Grayson asked, smiling, and that smile set off _all_ the alarms in Numbers’s head. He had no idea who Babs was, but he had no doubt that it wasn’t going to be good for him, not when _Mr. Grayson_ was the one to suggest her.

“She’s a Gotham U alum and one of their professors,” Jason explained. To Mr. Grayson, he added, “Which doesn’t mean she knows anything about the application process, especially for undergrads outside her department.”

“If she doesn’t already know, she’ll look into it, and _then_ she’d know everything anyone needs to know,” Mr. Grayson replied dismissively. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help you both.”

Jason didn’t look convinced.

Numbers was pretty sure Mr. Grayson was sending this Babs person to kill him.

But.

But this was going to be par for the course if he wanted to be a part of Jason’s life. And he _did._ He wanted to be as much a part of Jason’s life as he was allowed for as long as he was allowed. He was willing to go through anything for that chance.

So he replied, “Sure. I’d, uh, I’d welcome the help.”

Jason’s expression turned incredulous, like Numbers had lost his mind, and yeah, the chances of that were high, but Mr. Grayson looked… not curious. Appraising?

“I’ll let her know,” Mr. Grayson said. “She’s been dying to meet you, Numbers.”

A Wayne then. Probably someone high up on the ladder and well-trusted, too, if Mr. Grayson was involving her.

“I look forward to meeting her,” he managed to say because what else could he say?

Jason sighed and stabbed his fork into his chicken.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took off the Anxiety tag. While Numbers _is_ an insecure mess and can be anxious, I decided in the end that he doesn’t necessary fit the tag.

They’d decided to meet up again the next day, and as unready as Numbers was to meet yet another Wayne, it was also a relief. He wouldn’t spend days and _days_ agonizing over what he’d said, what he _should’ve_ said, and what he needed to do differently with this next meeting.

This next meeting where they’d hash out their future plans. _Their_ future plans.

Which was a bit misleading, he knew, and he really needed to stop thinking of it like that. It wasn’t _really_ their future plans, more like their respective, separate future plans to go to the same school.

It still sent a thrill down his spine to think it, though. The thought of going to school with Jason, of maybe having _classes_ with him, of studying together in the library or maybe in each other’s rooms as they crammed all night for exams, had derailed all his other thoughts after he’d left Stella’s.

It’d only really stopped making mush of his brain the next day when he’d looked at the time, realized he’d passed out in bed last night, and he was going to be late if he didn’t hustle.

And he would’ve done that, hustle, if he could just look at least halfway decent.

Numbers glanced at the mirror and then narrowed his eyes. He didn’t look like he was trying too hard, right? Or like he wasn’t trying at all, he couldn’t have that either, or Jason might think he didn’t give a shit. Unless friends didn’t care about dressing up for a part two of catching up. Did they?

He sighed. This was what he got for not even trying to make friends, dammit. He’d been here for three years now, and he _still_ didn’t know anybody here. Not his neighbors, not his coworkers, nobody.

Then again, that wasn’t exactly new. He’d never managed to form an actual connection with anyone after Ma Gunn’s. It’d been so _hard_ to build a relationship with his peers when _their_ biggest worries had been homework and the unfairness of whatever their parents had or hadn’t done when he’d scream himself awake most nights, dead sure that he was about to be shanked or smothered or that _Jason_ was.

It was one of the only two things Mr. Cobblepot had liked about him, if Numbers had to guess. His skills and his lack of anything resembling a life. He could call Numbers whenever he wanted, and if he had to fire Numbers for any reason, there were less loose ends to deal with.

He slapped himself in the face to break himself out of the melancholic turn his thoughts had taken.

“Quit it,” he told his reflection. “You’re meeting another Wayne. Focus on _that,_ your literal life could be on the line.”

Not that Jason would let them kill him, he was pretty sure, but that was no reason to make it harder on him.

His eyes flicked down.

Maybe he should change his shirt, after all? It was a little geeky even for _him,_ never mind for Jason. Never mind for a high-ranked Wayne. He should probably get something more neutral, more normal.

“Nope,” he muttered to himself. “Nope, nope, _nope._ ”

Numbers very deliberately turned away and set out to leave. This wasn’t a date. It _wasn’t._ And he wasn’t going to do the stupid first-date cliché thing where he changed his outfit a billion times. It was just a meetup between friends. Mostly friends. Either way, there was nothing to be nervous about, and he wasn’t going to change his clothes ~~again.~~

He was fine. He _looked_ fine. It was okay.

His hand stilled on the doorknob.

But if he just changed his shirt, it wasn’t _really_ changing his outfit, just a shirt, so—

He yanked the door before he caved, only to damn near pull his arm out of its socket because, being the idiot he apparently was, he’d forgotten the unlock the door before trying to open it.

Numbers stared at the lock uncomprehendingly. Then, either because Gotham eventually made all her residents crazy or because he was born that way, he pressed his forehead against the fake wood of his door and laughed.

He was such a mess.

Which was also nothing new. He’d been a mess then, and he was a mess now. If nothing else, there was no way for him to make Jason’s impression of him any worse. Pathetic as it probably was, that was actually a little reassuring.

_Unlocking_ the door this time, Numbers stepped out and locked the door behind him. Then, again, because this _was_ Gotham, he reached for his phone. He didn’t have to scroll to find Jason’s number. Jason’s actual, bona fide number that he’d given him despite Mr. Grayson’s hard stare at his side, displeased.

_On my way,_ Numbers sent. _Eta 20 mins._

And then, like a besotted fool, he stared at the screen, waiting, just in case Jason replied. He was about to close out—stupid, texts didn’t mean people had to reply right away, he was probably in the middle of something—when his phone dinged.

_Ok_

Yeah. Of course. What else was Jason supposed to say? At least he’d sent a reply to let him know that he’d gotten Numbers’s text. That was more than he could realistically ask for—

_Be safe_

Numbers felt his cheeks heat up.

_Be safe._

“ _Such_ a sap,” he grumbled under his breath, staring at those two words as if they _meant_ something. This was _Gotham,_ and Jason thought of him as a friend, so of course he’d be concerned for Numbers’s safety, especially since Numbers couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. It was nothing more than friendly concern, emphasis on the friendly.

After a minute or so of staring at the completely, 100% platonic text, he convinced himself to get his ass in gear. He’d already told Jason when to expect him by, and he didn’t want to be late. Late in Gotham just as often meant that something bad had happened as it meant that something stupid—like traffic—had held you up.

The place Jason wanted to meet up at wasn’t that far from Numbers’s apartment. It took anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes to walk there, far enough that he was leaving the Narrows behind for the safer, saner part of Gotham populated mostly by the lower middle class and up.

He stuck out like a sore thumb.

He couldn’t give a shit if he tried. He’d looked the place up yesterday in preparation of today’s meeting, and the place Jason had chosen, Perk Up, had a decent selection of different teas. Jason must’ve noticed that he didn’t like coffee and tried to offer him something else.

He wasn’t a tea drinker at _all,_ but the fact that Jason had tried to take his preferences into consideration was just.

Perk Up even had gluten-free options. Not a whole dedicated section in their menu like Stella’s had, but it had a good handful of items. He’d originally passed off Stella’s as a lucky happenstance at the time, but this was twice now that they were meeting at a place with gluten-free options, which meant it _wasn’t_ mere happenstance. Jason remembered he had celiac disease and was deliberately choosing places with his dietary restrictions in mind.

If _that_ wasn’t enough to make him give less than half a shit about the near constant side-eyeing he was getting, then _nothing_ would be.

It was still within friend limits, he had to remind himself. At least, he was pretty sure it was. That seemed like a friend thing to do, accommodating your friend’s dietary restrictions when choosing places to meet up, but despite the reminder, he was still bubbling with so much excitement that it was a small wonder he wasn’t skipping right now.

When Numbers finally arrived at Perk Up, he was surprised to see that there were people still inside. He would’ve thought that they’d leave as soon as they realized a Wayne was coming in, but that was the key word, wasn’t it, _realize?_ They probably didn’t recognize Jason, and if even _he_ didn’t know of anyone named Babs in the Wayne Family after his years in Mr. Cobblepot’s employment, they wouldn’t either.

The door made a little bell-like sound when he opened it, and he came up short when he saw Jason already at a table, waiting for him with a redheaded woman sitting in a wheelchair.

A wheelchair.

_Wow,_ he was a lot more ableist than he’d thought if it took him a good five seconds to figure out that the mysterious Babs was the woman in the wheelchair. That was—that was unexpected and something he’d have to work on.

Jason stood up the moment he saw Numbers, the beginnings of a smile playing at his lips. Unexpected confrontation of personal biases aside, Numbers could feel himself smiling back. Jason was _happy_ to see him.

He focused on that, on Jason being happy, on drinking in the sight of Jason smiling, and tried almost desperately to _not_ let his eyes stray from his face. To not let himself stare too much at his leather jacket, the way his off-white shirt was _just_ form-fitting enough to show off how _jacked_ he was, and his _thighs_ —

Babs turned around.

Numbers felt his smile freeze, and he yanked his eyes back up.

Yeah, definitely a Wayne.

Jason frowned at his reaction, his eyes flicking down to Babs— _Ms. Barbara_ —before he tilted his head toward the front counter. A go-ahead to buy a drink. There were already two cups of coffee on the table for them.

Numbers nodded and headed to the counter. He ordered the first tea he saw, not caring what it was, too busy watching Jason and Ms. Barbara in the corner of his eye, the latter because it seemed like a good idea to keep an eye on someone who’d looked at him like she’d pay to watch him get skewered with one of those jousting lances, the former because he was _Jason._

He ended up with some kind of citrusy tea. It actually pretty good, not too bitter with only a hint of sweetness. He wished he’d asked for a receipt so he’d know what he’d gotten.

Once he had his drink in hand, he walked toward ~~his death~~ the table.

“You must be Joel,” Ms. Barbara greeted as he neared. She smiled gently, but that did nothing to abate the icicle that jackhammered down his spine. No matter how nicely she smiled, he wasn’t going to forget the face she’d first greeted him with.

She held out a hand. “I’m Barbara Gordon.”

Barbara Gor—

As in _Commissioner Gordon’s_ daughter?

“Nice—nice to meet you, Ms. Gordon,” he stammered, putting his hand on the line for the second time in as many days.

She didn’t crush his hand. Numbers was pretty sure she could and _easily._

Jason rolled his eyes. “It’s _Numbers._ ” A pause and then Jason blinked, like something had just occurred to him. Turning his attention to Numbers, he asked, “It’s still Numbers, right?”

“Yeah, the name kinda stuck,” he answered with a nervous smile as he sat down.

More like he’d _made_ it stick. He’d insisted that everyone, including his own family, call him Numbers and had refused to answer to anything else.

Even back then when he hadn’t known, he’d been a hopeless case.

“Numbers then,” Ms. Gordon acquiesced. “I hear you’re interested in attending Gotham U with Jason?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Barbie here’s—”

_Barbie?_

“—a professor at their law school,” Jason told him, putting a hand on the back of Ms. Gordon’s wheelchair, every bit of him exuding pride.

“I considered going into computer science, but it ultimately wasn’t worth the time and effort to get a PhD,” Ms. Gordon added, as if there weren’t people out there who willingly jumped into a lifetime of debt for even a chance to complete a PhD. “I went for a JD and a Master of Laws at Harvard instead.”

Yeah, sure. Those were totally not a big deal. Definitely worthy of the offhand tone Ms. Gordon used to describe them, as if she’d only completed a few of those hobby classes and _hadn’t_ obtained _multiple_ postbaccalaureate degrees by, what, her mid-twenties from highly regarded, reputable institutions, one of which was part of the freaking _Ivy League._ And becoming a professor at a _university,_ a professor for a _postgraduate program,_ at her age was totally also not a big deal, none at all.

Absolutely no biggie.

“I’m not that involved in my school’s admissions process, never mind the admissions for undergrads, but things haven’t changed that much since I was an undergrad myself, so the core of it should be similar enough that I can walk the two of you through it easy.”

And to his surprise, that was exactly what Ms. Gordon did. She’d apparently printed out some relevant pages off of Gotham U’s site and outlined the general application process as well as the financial aid process, explaining all sorts of things about scholarships and grants and _outside_ scholarships and what services they’d be smart to take advantage of. They were all in each other’s spaces as they bent over to look at the papers, and Numbers could almost forget who Ms. Gordon was.

“Of course, there may be additional admissions requirements depending on what you want to major in,” Ms. Gordon explained, pulling out even more pages from the folder even more pages from the folder she’d brought. According to their headers, they were admissions requirements for both the English and Math Departments. “I assume you’ll be majoring in math? I have a few contacts in that department and can put in a good word for you.”

Jason looked at her sharply, suspicious, but Numbers couldn’t devote much attention to it because, well.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I think I’ll shoot for the Astronomy Department actually.”

They both stared at him.

“You like space? Since when?” Jason asked, ~~adorably~~ baffled.

He shrugged and tried to keep from fidgeting, but when he felt himself fail, he reached for a piece of napkin on the table and started tearing it into tiny pieces.

“It’s, uh—I mean. I just—I just thought it was kinda—kinda romantic? The idea that we might be seeing the light of dead stars, how even years and years and _years_ after they’ve died, they’re still _here._ A part of them’s remained. And I _like_ physics, so, uh, astrophysics seemed like the best of both worlds.”

“Romantic,” Jason repeated, disbelieving. “You find it romantic. _You?_ ”

“I find things romantic,” he grumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up.

He got where Jason was coming from. After all, romanticism had always been more Jason’s thing than his. Jason who he was _sure_ knew romance inside and out, and yeah, he was probably stereotyping him a bit, assuming this of Jason just because of his love for the classics, but Numbers thought it _fit_ him the way Comparative Literature fit him.

Anyone who looked at Jason wouldn’t have thought so, but then, they wouldn’t expect a Comparative Literature major from someone who looked the way Jason did, who _talked_ the way he did with his thick Bowery accent, blunt and occasionally crude.

Numbers personally thought it was… he supposed _intriguing_ would be the best word. It made him want to find out what _else_ about Jason you wouldn’t expect from his looks.

Jason snorted, but in a teasing way. Numbers smiled back at the amusement that played across his face, the hint of a smile on his lips.

When Ms. Gordon cleared her throat, he jumped in his seat.

“I don’t know anyone in the Astronomy Department, but I can see what I can do.”

Right, the offer. Or, Numbers was pretty sure, more like a deal with the devil. He’d bet anything she, and the rest of the Waynes, would use it as leverage against him in the future if he _did_ rely on her and her connections. It felt like the sort of thing they’d do.

“I, uh, I appreciate the offer, I really do, but no, thank you, ma’am,” he said as politely as he could, hoping that he wasn’t offending her. “I’d—I’d like to do this on my own.”

Ms. Gordon shrugged in response, easily accepting his decision, but he didn’t trust the gesture. She was probably still thinking of how to get him under her thumb. That was way too easy to be the end of it.

At her side, Jason nodded in agreement. Numbers figured he would. Jason didn’t _have_ to do everything on his own anymore, and Numbers would never fault him for using what resource or connection he had to get far in life. Much as it disgusted him when other people did it, he’d never hold it against Jason. After everything he’d been through, Numbers would give anything for Jason’s future to be paved for him.

But despite all those terrible things Jason had internalized about himself, he had his pride. He’d want to go as far as he could go on his own. He’d want to _earn_ his place, to fight for it, tooth and nail.

“In that case, you—” Jason cleared his throat and angled his face slightly away, not looking Numbers in the eye. “You want to study together? You’ve been outta school for, what, three, four years now? You could use all the help you can get.”

Numbers choked on air, and Jason’s head snapped back to him, concerned, which just made things worse. Why the _fuck_ did his body have to keep betraying him?

“Yeah!” he answered a little too enthusiastically when he found his voice. He felt the stares of the other patrons in the shop, but he didn’t care. This time, it was _Jason_ inviting him back out, _Jason_ who wanted to spend more time with him, and Numbers was, like, 70% sure it wasn’t just out of pragmatism either. He was getting a little red—just the barest hint of it, and it took him off-guard, how badly he wanted to _push,_ wanted to make that red a deeper shade, make it _spread_ —so it had to be more than that.

Or he was reading too much into it. They’d been apart for so long, had lived their own lives and grown up in ways neither of them could’ve ever foreseen, that Numbers couldn’t say anything with certainty. Maybe Jason was socially awkward and easily embarrassed. It wouldn’t match with what Numbers knew of him, but it wasn’t like he was an expert on Jason, and people changed.

But try as he might to remind himself to hold his damn horses, to calm down because he _could_ be reading too much into this and he’d make Jason uncomfortable, nothing could crush the warm, giddy feeling in his chest, like a can of soda that’d been shaken up bad.

Jason wanted study together. _Together._ And it wasn’t a study date—it _wasn’t,_ he had to tell himself repeatedly—but Jason wanted to spend more time with him, which was almost as good.

Best case scenario, he wanted to reconnect. Worst case, he still thought Numbers was smart and only wanted his help. Numbers would take that. He could finally _help_ Jason. Even if it was only to help prepare him for his GED and SAT, it still meant Jason trusted his abilities. Would _rely_ on him.

~~Maybe he had a chance?~~

He grinned like an idiot, possibly a manic one, and Jason smiled back, wide and just as dorky.

Ms. Gordon cleared her throat again, and like before, Numbers jumped at the sound of it. Jason, in response, looked away.

His ears had gone a bright, _bright_ red, and Numbers _stared,_ couldn’t not. It was starting to spread down to his neck, but from where he was sitting and from the way Jason had turned his head, he couldn’t tell if it already had, if it was _just_ down to his neck.

Numbers had never wanted to find something out so badly in his entire goddamn _life._

He was, perhaps, a little too invested in that redness. Just a bit.

“Jason,” Ms. Gordon said, putting a hand on Jason’s bicep, _and Jason let her,_ “could you get me a cup of water?”

Jason turned to look at her, his face red—his _face,_ and Numbers’s stomach twisted _hard_ at the sight of it—and blinked. “Oh shit, yeah, you’ve been talking this whole time.” And their drinks were almost gone by now. “Wait one sec, Barbie.”

Numbers was, admittedly, a little out of it, his brain having short-circuited, so it didn’t really click that he was being left on his own with a _Wayne_ until he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Ms. Gordon had shifted in her chair so she could face him, giving him that same icy look as before.

“So, _you’re_ Numbers.”

“Yes—” He cleared his throat when the _yes_ came out in a squeak. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ms. Gordon hummed, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“If you turned out to be an addict, Jason would probably cut all contact with you,” she mentioned offhandedly, like she was thinking out loud, like she wasn’t pinning him down with one of the more intense stares he’d ever had the misfortune of receiving. “He’s never dealt well with addicts.”

It was a threat. He _knew_ it was a threat, and he should probably be more terrified of it than he was, except all he could remember was that night yet another kid had overdosed, and Ma Gunn had put the whole facility on lockdown until she’d found the supplier.

_She wouldn’t wake up,_ Jason had whispered, one of the few, _few_ times that it was _Numbers_ comforting him, being his rock, and not the other way around. _S’was my fault, I **never** should’ve—_

He’d never found out how that sentence would’ve ended. Jason had gotten too choked up to continue, and Numbers hadn’t been able to dredge up the nerve to ask, hadn’t wanted to pry.

“If,” he began, eyes on the torn-up napkin in his hands, remembering, “if that happens and I don’t cut _myself_ out of his life, y’all can do whatever y’all want with me. Don’t—” He let out a short laugh, choked and bitterly harsh. “Please don’t let me hurt him like that.”

Jason could take hits. He could take pain, he always had, but he had such a soft heart, especially for someone as jaded as he was and as belligerent as he could be. The last thing Numbers wanted was to hurt him like that.

“Bold words from a kid who so easily cut his parents out of his life.”

Numbers flinched away, his breath hitching so sharply his throat almost ached. He’d taken kicks to the chest before that weren’t as painful as this.

Ms. Gordon drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “No signs of abuse or neglect, and they spent a _lot_ of money and effort on getting you help after your release from Faye Gunn’s.” Her fingers stilled. “Tell me, Numbers, why should I trust the words of someone with a history of cutting people out of his life for no reason?”

There was a reason, there _was._ He wouldn’t—he _knew_ how much his parents had done for him. Were _still_ doing for him. He didn’t touch it and never wanted to even think about it, but his parents sent over money every month in case he needed it.

That made it worse, didn’t it? That they _still_ tried to help him, and he couldn’t even be bothered to—

No, he had his reasons. He _did._ And a lot of it came down to really poor communication, but he had his reasons. It wasn’t for nothing.

Before he could say any of that, though, Jason was back, balancing three cups of water in his hands with ease. Under any other circumstances, Numbers would’ve been ridiculously happy about it, the evidence of Jason thinking about him, but all he could do now was try to calm himself down, to keep his composure so Jason wouldn’t find out. Wouldn’t worry.

“Interesting conversation?” Jason asked, setting a cup by each of them before sitting down.

“Something like that,” Ms. Gordon replied, picking up her cup of water. “You have an interesting friend, Jason.”

She didn’t elaborate further, taking what felt like a very deliberate drink of water, and Jason didn’t ask, eyeing her suspiciously.

Numbers swallowed and reached for his cup so he’d have something more solid in his hands, something to focus on. He ended up moving too quickly and spilling a bit of the water, which made him jerk in response and make an even _bigger_ mess.

“Shit,” he cursed, and he could feel what little calm he had unraveling. “Sorry, I can—’m sorry, I’ll just…”

He was about to get up to go some napkins when a hand carefully wrapped around his wrist.

Jason was _always_ so careful with Numbers, so different from the way he’d acted with any of the other kids. He’d known from day one that Numbers was very bit the weak nerd stereotype, and instead of using that to his advantage, he’d blunted his edges for him.

Then and now, Numbers didn’t think he could ever react to Jason’s ever-careful touches in any other way than stilling, calming. Jason’s hand was bigger now, was rougher and more callused, but Numbers wasn’t surprised that his body still couldn’t register it as anything but safe.

“It’s fine,” Jason told him, giving his wrist a light squeeze. “It’s just water, it’s not a big deal.”

It wasn’t _just_ the water, they both knew that, but Numbers didn’t know if Jason knew what it was really about. _He_ didn’t even know what it was really about or why he was freaking out.

Numbers could only stare at Jason dumbly.

Jason, in response, awkwardly, guiltily, pulled his hand away.

“Sorry. For leaving you with Barbie, I mean.” He shot Ms. Gordon a pissed look, something that looked like a viciously suppressed snarl twisting his lips. “Thought she had more sense than Dickbag, but guess I was wrong.”

No, no, no, he couldn’t let this happen. Numbers had sworn to himself yesterday that he wasn’t going to be the reason Jason got pissed at his family again. It was _his_ choice to crawl back into Jason’s life. He wasn’t going to do it while fucking up Jason’s relationships with his family.

“If you want to go, Numbers, I get it.”

Jason’s eyes were _intense_ as they bore into him, rooting him in place. Numbers was still shit at social cues—he was better than he was when he was younger, but better didn’t mean _good_ —but he was about fairly sure Jason was giving him an out. Not just for today, but for _good._ And knowing Jason, he’d make sure that if he left, the Waynes wouldn’t go after him for it.

It’d be as clean a break as Jason could make it.

“It’s just water,” he mumbled, borrowing Jason’s words, settling back down.

He still wasn’t all that calm, but he didn’t want to leave either. Leaving meant Jason thinking he was _leaving_ leaving again, and Numbers would do anything for Jason to never think that. He’d do anything for Jason to never have cause to doubt him.

Ms. Gordon quirked a brow. Surprised, he’d guess. That he’d stayed? Why did all the Waynes think he was going to turn his back on Jason at the drop of a hat?

Well, he knew why, but.

Okay, so they were justified in expecting him to drop Jason like a hot potato. He’d just have to prove to them, like he was going to prove to Jason, that he wasn’t going anywhere this time.

Maybe that’d help with the threats.

“So, Gotham U?” he asked, trying for a smile and knowing he’d fallen short of it. It felt crooked on his face, less reassuring and more of a grimace.

Jason smiled back, disbelieving but _relieved,_ and Numbers could feel himself calming down even faster.

He’d deal with the things Ms. Gordon had said later. For now, he let himself enjoy the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not _quite_ 100% satisfied with the ending, but I’m happy enough with it.
> 
> Numbers knows Barbara as Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, but she’s actually his niece whom he adopted after her parents’ deaths. No one outside the family knows she’s a Wayne, not even her dad.
> 
> He also doesn’t know that his recent leniency from the Wayne Family is, in fact, because of his relation to Barbara and not due to how long they’ve worked together like he thinks.
> 
> Barbara is, perhaps, a bit harsh with Numbers, but in her defense, that’s all they know of Numbers: that he and Jason were apparently friends back at Ma Gunn’s, but as soon as Numbers got out, he never attempted to contact Jason until _after_ he started working for Penguin and Jason came back from the dead. They don’t know that Jason _wanted_ Numbers to forget him, and they don’t know Numbers’s side of the story. They don’t know _anyone’s_ side of the story because neither of the boys are talking.
> 
> More importantly, I can’t figure out if I need a Blushing Kink tag.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to go with just a plain Blushing tag.
> 
> This chapter will reference/include Past Rape/Non-con, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, and some major self-loathing guilt, so read at your own risk.

Numbers has the vague, distant thought that he’s dreaming. Everything feels fuzzy and warm around the edges somehow. The people around them are a blur, their chatter undiscernible white noise, and Ms. Gordon isn’t even here anymore, her spot taken up by Numbers’s chair, his elbow brushing up against Jason’s.

Jason’s talking about something, the cadence of his voice is soothing, almost lulling, but the words are indistinct. Or they’re not and Numbers isn’t paying attention, too damn engrossed by Jason’s blush. His ears are still red. His _face_ is still red, but not so bright that it hides the faint freckles scattered across Jason’s nose and cheeks.

He remembers, almost suddenly, the way Jason’s blush traveled down to his neck, and then he’s _struck_ by the thought that it may go _farther down._ When Numbers blushes, he always gets splotchy in the most unattractive of ways, but he’s heard some people blush down to their chest.

It’s a thought that sticks to the forefront of his mind, a little like having something stuck between your teeth. You know something’s there, it’s near impossible to ignore, and it’s a labor-intensive thing to try and get it out.

Numbers doesn’t even try, is the thing. It’s a dream, and he wants to see it. And _since_ it’s a dream, since he ~~probably~~ won’t die from indulging in this, he reaches over the very short distance between them. His fingers hook on the front of Jason’s collar, but Jason doesn’t react beyond quieting and lifting an eyebrow at him, amused and questioning.

He doesn’t stop him, not in the long, _long_ seconds Numbers waits, just in case.

When there’s still no other reaction, no hands batting his away, with his heart beating loud in his ears, Numbers tugs the collar down.

No red.

The desire hits him out of left field, a baton to the head: He wants to _make_ it red. Wants to watch Jason go red and watch that red flush down and _down_ until it’s as far as it can go, and then he wants try some _more_ to see if he can make it go just that little bit farther. He wants—

Oh.

This is one of _those_ dreams.

Should he continue? He wants to, but he always feels a little guilty when any of his dreams wander into this direction with Jason. After everything Jason’s been through, after everything he’s been through _because of Numbers,_ it’s always felt like yet another violation. Like he should make sure Jason’s okay with him dreaming about him like this first.

“So, you don’t want to?” Jason asks, smirking, and the shop around them shifts until they’re standing in the balcony of some nice apartment, the windows _huge_ and the natural light impossible in Gotham. He’s sitting on some comfy-looking wicker chair, a book in his lap.

He looks good. Looks _soft,_ all relaxed and happy and _safe._ Numbers’s mouth dries.

He’s such a perv.

“I—”

His hand’s still extended. Jason takes advantage, taking a hold of his wrist—his hands rough and callused but so _careful,_ as gentle and warm as they were at Perk Up—and bringing his hand up to his face.

Almost on automatic, Numbers cups Jason’s cheek.

“Still don’t want to?” Jason asks, his pupils blown wide, his blush darkening under Numbers’s hand.

He’s ashamed to say he hesitates. He should stop this. Jason’s had _way_ too many people violate him in every way imaginable, and he can’t contribute to that. He doesn’t _want_ to contribute to that, so he needs to stop. He needs to take his hand away.

Jason’s so _warm._

“You’re _just_ like them.”

Numbers jerks his hand away as he turns around, heart pounding _hard._ That’s—that’s _Jason’s_ voice. Jason’s voice as he remembers it back when they were at Ma Gunn’s.

Inside the apartment, visible through the glass of the door and still perfectly audible, is Jason. _His_ Jason from when they were young. He’s so _small,_ his clothes hanging from his frame, and it’s a shock to see him now. He’s never realized just how small Jason used to be. It’s hard to reconcile this Jason with the man Jason’s become, with how _big_ Jason’s gotten, tall and muscular, the kind of guy who’d have anyone even remotely interested in men do a double-take as he walks past them.

But the real kicker, the thing that steals his breath away, is the dark, ugly bruise on his jaw. It’s in the vague shape of a hand, and Numbers, he knows that bruise. He remembers it _vividly._

They took Jason away for no reason at all that day, and he came back _limping._ He came back shaking and bruised, and he refused to sleep, not even when Numbers swore to keep watch, that he’d—he’d freaking _Black Canary_ anyone who tried to touch him if he’d just _please sleep._

“You’re _just_ like them,” he repeats wetly, hurt in more ways than one. He looks so _betrayed,_ like he’s going to _cry,_ and Numbers feels his chest crack open and cave in on itself.

“No,” he swears, shaking his head, the word coming out as a whisper. He steps forward, hand outstretched, but Jason flinches away.

He did that. _Him._ He’s made Jason flinch away from him. He’s _scared_ Jason, made him think that he’s like those fucking _monsters_ back at Ma Gunn’s, and why wouldn’t he? Numbers _is_ just like them, isn’t he? Having dreams like this, thinking of Jason like this, without even asking, without making sure it’s okay after everything he _knows_ Jason went through, and _what is **wrong** with him—_

Numbers jolted awake, and for a second, he didn’t know where he was. The room was dark, and he had a fleeting, crazy thought that he was back at Ma Gunn’s. That everything had been a dream and he’d never actually gotten out, that _Jason_ had never gotten out.

When reality sunk it, he scrambled for the bathroom and barely made it in time to puke his guts out into the toilet.

“Gross,” he muttered when he finished emptying out everything there was to empty, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe his mouth.

He flushed the toilet with a grimace and washed his hands at least three times before he felt comfortable with their cleanliness. It was what he got for putting off cleaning for so damn long. Not that it’d even _been_ that long, and honestly? He didn’t think he’d react any other way unless he’d only _just_ cleaned the toilet and maybe not even then.

Next was his mouth. He rinsed and gargled as often as it took to get the throw-up taste out and once more after _that_ for good measure. By the time he was done, drying his hands and face with a towel, he looked marginally better.

He still felt like shit, though, and while he could always do with more sleep, he didn’t want to go back to bed on the off chance that his next dream would pick right back up from where his last one had ended.

He could still see the betrayal written across Jason’s face.

With a sigh, he rubbed his face and headed for the kitchen. It looked dark outside, so it was probably way too early for food, but he could get started on his water consumption early today. Maybe this time, he’d actually drink enough for the day.

He took two steps into his kitchen before he saw the woman sitting on his island counter, and his muscles seized.

He recognized her immediately. Couldn’t _not_ after all the bitch fests he’d overheard about the Wayne Family, always in hushed tones _just in case_ but never quiet enough.

There wasn’t a whole lot he knew about Kate Kane. All the Iceberg Lounge had on her was her confirmed blood relation to Mr. Wayne, her military files, a lot of which had been redacted, and her recent discharge, though not the reason for said discharge.

The men who’d been in charge of gathering intel on her had never seemed all that impressed. Compared to Bruce Wayne and the First Son, she was run-of-the-mill, they’d say. There wasn’t anything really _special_ or terrifyingly outstanding about her.

None of them had talked about the way Ms. Kane moved, the difference in Mr. Wayne’s body language when she was near versus anyone else, or the difference in _her_ body language when anyone else went near him or the other Waynes.

She was trained, experienced, and she was _good_ at what she did. Add that with her military background? With her unsettlingly censored record?

Jason had taught him how to read bodies and find the biggest threats, and in all the years since, it’d never failed him. For all that she was dressed in a fancy suit, looking more like a particularly good-looking businesswoman or lawyer than a captain of the youngest and most powerful mob in Gotham history, Kate Kane was _dangerous._ Not in the same way Mr. Grayson and Ms. Gordon were, but no less a threat.

That she’d managed to break into his apartment didn’t say much, his security wasn’t _that_ great, but he was also on the fourth floor, and his building didn’t have a fire escape. He’d put money on her being just as good as Mr. Grayson when it came to breaking into people’s homes.

“Well, you’re up a lot earlier than I expected,” Ms. Kane said, as though she hadn’t just heard him emptying his stomach out into his toilet.

If she weren’t a Wayne, Numbers might’ve called it a kindness.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” he replied, unsure if he needed to apologize for, he didn’t know, ruining her plans? Messing up her schedule? If he’d had a choice in the matter, he definitely wouldn’t have woken up now and especially not in the way that he had.

Ms. Kane shrugged. “No, it’s fine. Might as well get this over with from the get-go.”

Was this… was this an assassination? Had he literally walked into his own murder?

Ms. Kane slid off the counter, and Numbers was able to see her at full-height in-person for the first time. She was _tall,_ probably taller than him by a good inch or two, which wasn’t saying much, but it wasn’t like he was that short himself.

“My bats are under the impression that a relationship would be too much for Jason right now given his history”—she rolled her eyes, and he found himself smiling at the gesture, at her obvious fond exasperation—“but that if he _has_ to be interested in anyone, Babs apparently knows plenty of people better suited for him.”

It took Numbers a second to register what she was saying, his brain slowed down by the “my bats” bit because what, who, and _why?_ When he finally got what she was saying, he winced. That… that actually hurt a lot. Numbers was aware that Jason was way, _way_ out of his league. He was basically the benchwarmer of a local sports team to Jason’s professional star athlete, the difference between them was that huge. He _got_ that.

But Ms. Kane—or, if he was understanding right, the other Waynes—seemed to think he was—he didn’t know. That he was only with Jason to _be_ with him? _In that way?_ That if a relationship was off the table, he wouldn’t want to be friends with Jason anymore?

It was a little sad, if he was honest, just what that implied about the types of interactions they dealt with, but he wasn’t—he wasn’t in this with any expectation, and sure as _fuck,_ he wasn’t clinging to his friendship with Jason with any intentions of starting anything. He wasn’t that kind of asshole. He just wanted Jason back in his life in whatever capacity Jason was comfortable with.

If Jason found someone he really liked, or if he liked one of Ms. Gordon’s people, Numbers would support him 100%, and he’d do his best— _better_ than his best—to make sure Jason never found out.

“Personally, the way I figure it, you’re the best option for Jason: not exactly a civvie, but not part of the underworld either.”

Numbers spluttered. How could he not when she’d basically just approved of him? _Him._ A Wayne thought _he_ was the best option for Jason.

“Not to mention, he _chose_ you, which is about all that matters, as far as I’m concerned.”

He’d _what?_

That made no sense. Why would someone like _Jason,_ someone that kind and strong and—and, okay, that _good-looking,_ choose _him_ of all people? He was fairly smart, he’d give himself that much credit, but he didn’t have much else going for him. He wasn’t a catch.

He had to have heard that wrong, but a small stupid part of him whispered, hopeful and awed, _He chose **me?**_

Maybe that was why he did it. Maybe that stupefied hope—or maybe his self-preservation instincts were deader than he’d thought—was why he opened his big mouth and blurted out, “So, you won’t kill me?”

A beat and then Ms. Kane laughed, so lost in it that she even snorted.

“Kid, I was Navy SEAL,” she said when she finished, actually wiping away her tears from laughing so damn hard. “If I’d come here to kill you, you’d either be dead already or I’d be torturing you right now, per Bruce’s request.”

He managed to let out a shaky sigh of relief. That was… that was good. Not the dead-already bit and _definitely_ not the torture bit, of course, but the part where Ms. Kane confirmed she wasn’t here to off him. He hadn’t been completely sure, and—

And he had plans he’d do anything to be able to keep, a future he’d do anything to make real.

“Though that isn’t to say I won’t kneecap you the first chance I get if you fuck Jason over.”

What humor that’d been present in Ms. Kane’s expression was _gone_ now, wiped away into nothing, and Numbers felt chilled to the _bone._

He’d seen people with that exact same expression back at Ma Gunn’s. They’d been the ones to look out for, the ones Jason had absolutely refused to let him get near, especially on his own.

_The others’ll hurt you,_ he’d said, his grip on Numbers’s arm tight, his eyes never once moving away from them, _but those fuckers’ll do worse, **bet** on it._

Not necessarily because they were worse or because they were any more psychopathic or anything, Numbers had learned, but because they’d been pushed too far. They’d been pushed to the brink, had lost everything there was to lose, and they weren’t going to stand for being pushed any further.

Or something like that.

“I’ll—I’ll try to stay still for it if I do,” he promised her when he found his words again. He’d deserve anything and everything she had to dish out if he ever betrayed Jason like that.

She narrowed her eyes as she assessed him and then let out a huff of what might’ve been a scoff if she wasn’t so amused, so pleasantly surprised. “You’re in _deep,_ aren’t ya?”

_Do not blush, do **not** —_

Crap, he was blushing.

“I am,” he confirmed. Even if he could, he wasn’t going to try and hide it. He wasn’t going to be one of those guys who weren’t affectionate with their partner, least of all because it was such _bullshit_ that men couldn’t be affectionate, but mostly because he wasn’t _ever_ going to give Jason cause to doubt him, and that meant not giving _other people_ cause to doubt him and, in turn, make _Jason_ doubt him.

Not that Jason was his partner, and not that Numbers was trying for that, but the Waynes wouldn’t care about those semantics, and it was the principle of the thing.

“Your parents know that?” Ms. Kane asked, brow raised, and if there was anything she could’ve said to make the air in his lungs instantly freeze, this was among the top five.

“That’s a no.”

Was she—she wouldn’t, would she? Make him tell them?

Or, well, she _might._ His strained relationship with his parents—some of which, yes, they’d contributed to, but he wasn’t innocent, he could admit that—had been a sore point with Ms. Gordon, and he wasn’t so naïve as to think that it wasn’t on the radar for the rest of Jason’s family.

What if she did? He didn’t know how to explain it to them. Didn’t even really know it himself, if he was being honest. It’d just—he’d never thought about it, and it’d only ever been about Jason, and then he’d died, and Numbers hadn’t thought about it again after that. But then Jason had come back, and now he _was_ thinking about it again, and he didn’t know how to get that all out to anyone in a way that made sense, much less to his _parents_ who he hadn’t spoken to in _how_ many years, and _this_ was why Ms. Gordon didn’t trust him, she had every right—

“Whoa there,” Ms. Kane said, her hands raised up not in surrender, but more in a placating way. “Calm down, kid. I’m not about to make you out yourself or make that an ultimatum or anythin’. I don’t tolerate that kind of shit.”

The relief that swept through him was so overwhelming he sagged like a puppet whose strings had been cut, _this_ close to crying.

“I, um. Thank you.”

Ms. Kane shook her head. “Don’t thank me for that. _I_ of all people wouldn’t push for that. It’d be real fucking hypocritical of me.”

Numbers blinked. Hypocritical? Was she—

“But maybe get back in touch with your folks, yeah? Again, not an ultimatum, and it’d be a _real_ dick move if you only made amends with them because we told you to, but with the High Holy Days coming up…” She shrugged. “It’s as good a time as any, and it’d help your case.”

She was… giving him advice? She was _helping_ him?

“You’re helping me?”

There was approval, and then there was _support._ They were two very different things, and while Numbers could’ve hoped for the former—he didn’t, but he _could’ve,_ it was a possibility, albeit a one-in-a-million kind of one—he couldn’t imagine a scenario where a Wayne might _help_ him. Might try and help set him up with Jason.

It was… it was so beyond unreal Numbers was half-tempted to pinch himself in case he was still dreaming and his nightmare had just taken a weird turn.

“Well, yeah,” Ms. Kane replied with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t blowing Numbers’s mind to bits. “Jason likes you. Don’t need much more reason than that.”

Jason _liked_ —

Ms. Kane approached him, not quite a murder strut, but there was something in the way she moved that pinned Numbers in place. She’d said she wasn’t here to kill him, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t lying, but he couldn’t help it. With each step, he felt himself get tenser and tenser, and when her hand landed roughly on his shoulder, he jumped.

His heart rabbited, and it took him a good ten seconds to realize that he wasn’t in pain, that her touch hadn’t hurt.

“Jason’s a big boy, and I know he can take care of himself,” Ms. Kane said, her hand squeezing just that tiny bit. It still didn’t hurt, but Numbers felt the strength in her hand, and it was all he could do to strangle his nervous giggle. “But I owe a _lot_ of who I am and how far I’ve gone to Bruce, so I’m a little protective of him and his, _especially_ Jason. I lost my chance with that kid once, I ain’t about to lose this one.

“So, you take care of our boy, or there ain’t nowhere you can run where we won’t find you. Where _I_ won’t find you.”

Numbers managed a nod.

“One fucking _finger_ goes where it’s unwanted and you’ll be following Agent Flores’s footsteps.”

Agent Flores? Numbers blinked, trying to work out why that name was familiar until the memory hit him.

She was talking about Agent _Catalina Flores,_ the FBI agent whose horrifically mangled corpse had washed up on the shore of Gotham Bay and brought a fucking _witch hunt_ the likes of which Gotham hadn’t seen since—since fuck, since Felipe Garzonas’s own gruesome murder.

There had been rumors that the Wayne Family had been involved in her death, in _both_ of their deaths actually, but no one had been able to actually prove anything. The best even Mr. Cobblepot had managed had been evidence so circumstantial they would’ve been laughed out of court.

Not that that mattered. He wouldn’t _let_ it matter, he wouldn’t make it a necessary reenactment.

“I wouldn’t,” he swore as vehemently as he could when he was still so damn nervous. “I’d—I’d find a way to cut both my hands off before I touch him in any way he doesn’t want.”

There was a pause, and Numbers didn’t know if Ms. Kane believed him. He hoped she did, or at least that he had a chance of convincing her. She was Jason’s aunt, and while he had never expected to get along with the Waynes or for them to like him, at the bare minimum, he wanted to be on civil terms with them. The last thing he wanted was to put Jason in a position where he might have to choose between him and his family.

Not to mention, she was _helping_ him. She both approved _and_ supported whatever relationship he had with Jason, so he kind of wanted to be on at least neutral terms with her.

It was kind of hard to get anywhere close to those terms, though, when the person in question thought he might sexually assault her nephew, but he figured this was one of those things that you were supposed to keep trying at no matter how seemingly hopeless it was.

Ms. Kane hummed. “See that you keep your word, kid.” Her hand slid down to knock his chest with her knuckles, the gesture painless, almost friendly. “And for fuck’s sake, go grocery shopping sometime. If I have to trust anyone with my nephew, I’d like for them to be able to take care of themselves.”

Numbers nodded wordlessly, partially because he honestly had no idea what anyone could say to that. _Sorry I haven’t learned to adult yet_ didn’t quite cut it, and _you actually **trust** me with him_ would probably hurt him more than help him.

So, he kept his mouth shut.

Satisfied, Ms. Kane headed for the front door. She didn’t leave immediately, though. She paused at the threshold, one of her hands holding the door open, and said over her shoulder in that tone people used when they “remembered” something, “By the way, Bruce wants to meet you. This Friday, two o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“Okay,” Numbers croaked as she walked out without waiting for his response.

The door closing felt an awful lot like a finale, like a gunshot or a falling guillotine biting into its latest victim.

He didn’t hear anything after that, and when Numbers finally convinced himself to move, he just headed back to his bedroom. He couldn’t remember why he’d come to the kitchen, and he really, _really_ didn’t want to deal with his apparently empty fridge right now.

A thought came unbidden, and he paused, then did a quick walk around his apartment. Nothing and no one. The front door was locked. Numbers stared at the second deadbolt for several seconds, wondering how the _hell_ she’d managed to lock that, too, and decided he’d deal with it when he dealt with his fridge. According to the clock on the oven, it was way too early for this.

Decision made, he trudged back to his room and dropped face-first onto his bed. There was a bit of bounce, and his nose ached a little from the impact, but he didn’t flip onto his back until it got hard to breathe.

Mr. Cobblepot would’ve _killed_ for the opportunity to meet Ms. Kane, he thought absently, staring at his ceiling. Not to mention, an actual _meeting_ with Mr. Wayne? Yeah, Mr. Cobblepot would be _seething_ if he realized the opportunity he’d lost through Numbers.

It was probably a good thing, though. The Waynes were already suspicious enough of him. How much worse would it have been if there was even the slimmest possibility that Mr. Cobblepot might get information about them through him?

Not that he’d ever willingly let that happen, but that was the key word, wasn’t it, “willingly”? The Iceberg Lounge wasn’t _technically_ underworld, but that still left a lot of gray area.

But that was a non-issue now, and any meeting between him and the Wayne were strictly personal, a meet-the-family kind of thing, if very terrifying and potentially fatal. And not the way friends met each other’s families either. He was pretty sure the Waynes wouldn’t be reacting as violently as they were now otherwise.

_The way I figure it, you’re the best option for Jason._

Numbers bit down on his lip, but that wasn’t enough to suppress his stupid giddy smile.

_He **chose** you._

He had an actual chance, didn’t he? That was what that meant, right? It had to be. Or, well, no, it didn’t _have_ to be, but everything seemed to point to that. This wasn’t him being crazy and grasping at straws like a pathetic, desperate creeper. Ms. Kane had flat-out said that Jason liked him, had all but come out and said that there could be a _relationship_ between them. A _relationship_ relationship.

And yeah, he was going to have to meet Mr. Wayne, and that was a _terrifying_ thought, but despite his impending doom, Numbers smiled up at his ceiling like a loon, couldn’t not.

It wasn’t some fruitless crush. It wasn’t unrequited.

_Jason likes you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to Bruce’s interference, the Navy barred women from becoming Navy SEALs. After he opened that door for her, Kate completed the BUD/S training and was the first woman to become a Navy SEAL.
> 
> Part of this is actually based in reality. The Navy really did bar women from becoming Navy SEALs until very recently. As in December 3, 2015. The first woman to complete the BUD/S training to become a SEAL (2019) wasn’t chosen for the contract because she didn’t list the SEALs as her top choice.
> 
> Also, completely unrelated side note that ended up getting cut out in the edits: Kate likes to wear suits, not necessarily because she doesn’t like dresses, but because she thinks women in suits are hot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce’s part actually turned out pretty short. Part of it’s because that’s just how it turned out, but part of it’s also because the others already had their turns, and they’ve been comparing notes, so everything that can be said _has_ been said, and anything Numbers could’ve said has been heard.

For all that they all looked boring and were basically near copies of each other, nice clothes, Numbers had the grave misfortune to learn, were _expensive,_ and as much as he wanted to get something that looked better than what his closet offered, with his employment status in limbo, he couldn’t.

Which was. Not great for the anxiety stewing in the pit of his stomach. What if Mr. Wayne didn’t think he was good enough for Jason? Not that he was, he knew that, and he knew Jason was his own person and Mr. Wayne had no say in the people he ~~dated~~ was friends with, but Numbers really didn’t want to cause any drama in Jason’s family.

It would’ve been so much easier if he could dress up. He wasn’t a slob, but how was he supposed to convey that when he didn’t have any fancy clothes? _How_ did he not have any fancy clothes, he’d had a job until very recently. The best he could manage was a loose pair of dark jeans and a plain red—

Oh, a green shirt. He had a green shirt. It wasn’t as nice-looking as his red one, but…

Numbers stared at it for a beat longer before putting his red shirt back and taking the green one instead. It was stupid, he knew it was, and he didn’t really have an excuse for the stupidity, but Mr. Wayne had to know about his first visit to the Manor. He’d already embarrassed himself then, so what did it matter if he went and made a fool of himself some more?

A lot, actually, but he tried not to think about it.

Hopefully, it’d at least look like he tried.

Hopefully, it’d be _enough._ After all, the Wayne Family wasn’t _just_ the mob family of all mob families. Mr. Wayne was a billionaire in his own right, which… was a really stymying thought if he thought too hard about it for too long.

The point was, Mr. Wayne had to be used to seeing really, _really_ fancy, expensive suits. Hell, Numbers had seen him on TV more than once, and the people around him were dressed to the _nines._

_That_ was the world the Waynes lived in, how the fuck was _he_ of all people supposed to—

“Nope,” he muttered, pinching his cheeks to get the point across. “ _Nope._ ”

He wasn’t going to think about that. That was the sort of thought that’d kept him from reaching out all those years ago, and he wasn’t going to waste his second chance. The Waynes had already seen him at his worst—seriously, _why_ couldn’t he have changed out of his pajamas that day?—and Mr. Grayson, Ms. Gordon, _and_ Ms. Kane had already seen him at his usual. _Jason_ had seen him at his usual. _He was fine._ Sure, this was _Bruce Wayne_ he was going to meet, but he really couldn’t do worse.

He could, but he wasn’t going to think about it.

Numbers gave his reflection one more look, made sure everything looked okay, that _he_ looked okay, before he snagged his phone from on top of the dresser to check the time. It hadn’t been long since he’d last checked, which meant he’d be leaving early, but that was a necessity. He needed to get to a better part of Gotham to catch a cab to get to Wayne Manor, and if he wanted to do that _without_ sweating through his clothes? He needed to take the bus, and they were so unreliable he needed to make sure he had plenty of time.

Two unread messages from Mom stared up at him.

Numbers stopped abruptly.

The first notification just said that there was a picture attached, nothing more. The second was a preview of the recipe she’d used for whatever it was that she’d made and sent him a picture of. Snapchat was a thing, but she’d always just text him the picture instead. They were all terrible, the lighting off or just that little bit blurry, but without fail, if she thought he’d like it, she’d text him a picture and the recipe.

Mom had taken such pains to teach him how to cook, hoping that it’d help him. On good days, they’d spend hours together with her quietly telling him family stories, carefully teaching him all the traditional recipes and their family ones while classical music played in the background.

She didn’t even _like_ classical music, but she’d read somewhere that classical music was soothing and helpful, _healing,_ and would play it around the house for him.

And Dad had taken to buying him cookbooks. It didn’t matter which cuisine they were—Jewish, Southwestern, even one for _baking_ once—he’d specifically hunt for them and buy them for him, not knowing if cooking was a thing Numbers liked doing but wanting to show his support somehow. He’d look through the books and carefully mark the recipes that weren’t kosher, just to let him know but ultimately letting it be up to him to decide if he wanted to keep kosher or not.

They’d both tried so hard. Not always in the best of ways, and he himself sure hadn’t made anything easy for them, but they’d _tried._

Numbers let out a shuddery exhale and ran his hand through his hair maybe a little too roughly. One thing at a time, he told himself. One _family_ at a time.

When he was sure that this was _his_ decision, when he was absolutely sure that he wasn’t doing it to help his case with the Waynes, consciously or subconsciously, he’d consider it, but not until then.

He cleared the notifications, pocketed his phone, and headed out.

As predicted, the bus was late, and he ended up getting to central Gotham over half an hour later than the bus schedule indicated. But he’d planned for that, had deliberately left early to make up for the lost time, so Numbers didn’t let himself obsess. Instead, he focused on looking for the Lyft he’d requested.

Whoever invented ridesharing deserved a Nobel Peace Prize or something.

Of course, his driver, Anthony, refused to actually drop him off at Wayne Manor, but that was understandable and expected. He didn’t need to be dropped off at the gates, just close enough that the walk wouldn’t have him sweating buckets.

Anthony agreed to _that,_ thankfully, and Numbers made sure to leave a damn good tip. It’d probably come to bite him later when he worked on this month’s finances, especially since he was in employment limbo, but he’d figure it out.

Maybe—maybe he’d dip into the money his parents were sending him.

In a turn of events that left him strangely anxious for something to go wrong, everything had gone according to plan, and sixteen minutes to two o’clock found Numbers pressing that intercom button again. He fidgeted like mad, couldn’t not, and his heart pounded loud in his ears. It was practically all he could hear.

The gates opened.

Numbers stared at the winding driveway, glanced over at the silent intercom, and then back at the driveway. It was an invitation if he ever saw one, but a really creepy one.

With a fortifying breath, he walked in and only jumped a little bit when the gates closed behind him. He firmly reminded himself to _not_ laugh nervously. Laughing all by your lonesome didn’t look too great for you, and he couldn’t afford any missteps.

_Good impression,_ he told himself. _Make a good impression. A **better** impression than last time._ With a bar that low, he couldn’t possibly fail.

When he finally made it to the front door, he gave himself a minute to calm down and get his breathing back to normal, maybe cool down a bit, before he pressed the doorbell.

The door opened only a minute or so later.

An old man greeted him.

Numbers didn’t let himself relax. First of all, that’d be incredibly ageist of him, and he was trying to do better about his apparently still extant personal biases, but more importantly, this man worked for the Wayne Family, which meant he could probably kill Numbers with his pinky.

“Ah, welcome, Mr. Eppes.”

Oh, that was—that was Mr. Pennyworth. Well. At least he had a chance to redo his first impression?

He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mr. Pennyworth.” Then, his eyes widened because fuck, fuck, _fuck._ “I mean! Good afternoon.” The last bit came out mumbled, and he could feel his cheeks get warm.

This was what he got for being so damn reclusive, wasn’t it? What little social skills he’d managed to develop in his youth had all shriveled up and died, leaving him with nothing when he was meeting _Jason’s family._

“Good afternoon, sir,” Mr. Pennyworth replied, mercifully not commenting on his slip-up. He stepped aside to let Numbers inside and closed the door. “I’ll let Master Bruce know you’re here. Would you like a glass of water in the meantime, or perhaps some tea?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, trying to not fidget. “Um, should I just—”

“You made it.”

He jumped and almost tripped over his own feet as he whirled around.

“Yes,” he squeaked in response. In the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Pennyworth slide out of the room unobtrusively. “Um, it’s nice to meet you again, Ms. Kane.”

Ms. Kane’s lips quirked. “Nice to meet you, too, Poindexter.” She gave him a onceover. “You clean up pretty good.”

He felt himself flush as he remembered that her first impression of him was _also_ of him in his ratty pajamas and, worse, when he was all washed out from the nightmare and throwing up. He wanted to pull an ostrich and stick his head into some sand to hide from the world.

“Thank you, ma’am.” At least the mess he’d made of his closet wasn’t a _total_ loss.

“Relax, kid.” She gestured over her shoulder with a tilt of her head. “He’s not going to do anything too bloody. Alfred’s of the opinion that work should stay at work and home’s for family matters.” She snorted. “Not that Bruce ever sticks to that 100%, but I told him to go easy on you, so he should this time.”

Alfred was of the opinion…? That was Mr. Pennyworth, right? Mr. Pennyworth had that big a say in things?

Actually, no, that wasn’t the important bit. Numbers blinked, thinking over what Ms. Kane had said, and straightened because _what?_

“Thank—thank you,” he stuttered out, absolutely _stunned._ Never mind that Ms. Kane had apparently gone to bat for him—she _did_ trust him, she actually trusted him—but she’d told _the_ Bruce Wayne what to do, _and he’d listened._

“You’re welcome.” She looked over her shoulder and then stepped aside for Mr. Pennyworth.

“Master Bruce is in his study, Mr. Eppes, if you’re ready to meet him?”

He was never going to be ready to meet Mr. Wayne, but he nodded anyway.

“If you’ll follow me, sir.”

It took Numbers a second to actually _breathe_ and another to get his legs working.

“Good luck, kid,” Ms. Kane said as he walked past her.

Mr. Pennyworth escorted him down the hall, and they stopped in front of the third door to their left. Mr. Pennyworth stood to the side, letting Numbers take the time to steel himself. It didn’t do much, but no amount of time would, so he went ahead and knocked.

A beat, and then, “Come in.”

With a shaking hand, he opened the door and entered the room. Mr. Wayne was sitting behind a desk inside, working on a small stack of paperwork.

Apparently, even mobsters did paperwork. Go figure.

“Good—good afternoon, Mr. Wayne,” he said, closing the door behind him. He didn’t dare sit down, not yet. That was a thing, right? You waited until you were invited to sit.

Mr. Wayne looked up.

Yeah, that second to steel himself did shit all.

“Take a seat,” Mr. Wayne said, gesturing at the chair across from him.

Numbers really didn’t want to get that close, if he was honest, but he obeyed anyway. It was a simple enough request—order?—and it wouldn’t do to fuck up so early into their meeting over something as simple as sitting.

“Dick tells me you’re interested in pursuing a relationship with Jason.”

Numbers choked on his spit.

Okay, wow, no beating around the bush. Got it.

“Um, yes, sir.” Then, hurriedly, he added, “I mean! If Jason wants to, of course. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t push or make him do anything he didn’t want to do. I can totally just be friends with him if that’s all he wants.”

_Totally._ Why in the name of all that was holy and sacred did he have to say _totally_ in front of _Bruce Wayne?_

Mr. Wayne looked unimpressed. Either that, or that was his default face. Or both, the answer could always be both.

“And if we’re all against this relationship?”

Numbers flinched, and his eyes darted across the room. Not to look for anything in particular, he just couldn’t handle looking at Mr. Wayne right now.

“I—I really hope it doesn’t come to that, but the last thing I want is to come between Jason and his family, so I guess… I guess I’d bow out?”

Admittedly, he hadn’t exactly thought that part through all the way. He only knew that he’d do anything to make sure Jason wouldn’t have to choose, not _how_ he’d go about making sure Jason wouldn’t have to.

It was a really poorly thought-out plan, especially for him. He _liked_ plans, he really should’ve done better than this. In his defense, though, he’d thought Jason had _died,_ only to find out, no, that _wasn’t_ actually the case, and then he was meeting Wayne after Wayne after _Wayne,_ and _then_ Ms. Kane had dropped the bomb about Jason liking him, so he hadn’t had much brainpower lately to devote to an actual working plan.

Which wasn’t exactly an excuse, but. Yeah, okay, he should’ve done a little more, especially if Ms. Kane was taking the chance on him by helping. What if he put her in a bad spot with the rest of the family? What if they didn’t trust her judgement anymore? She’d _vouched_ for him, and he’d screwed her over—

Mr. Wayne hummed. It reminded Numbers, a little jarringly and a little suddenly, of the other Waynes he’d met, and he fought a smile at the way they’d apparently adopted each other’s habits. He wondered if Jason hummed like that, too, in response to things.

“You understand that we’re more than a little suspicious of your background.”

Numbers winced. Yeah, that background. If only he could go back in time and punch his past self’s lights out so he wouldn’t do something stupid like work for Mr. Cobblepot, especially when it turned out to ultimately be for nothing. Or maybe go farther back in time and keep him from leaving the way he had, get it through his stupid teenage brain that it was _imperative_ that he maintain a good relationship with his parents if he wanted even a chance of the Waynes having a good opinion of him.

“Of course, sir,” he agreed. He took a deep fortifying breath that also did shit all before forging on with, “But I’m—I’m actually genuinely in this for me. And for Jason. No one else. I won’t—I won’t sell him out. Or y’all! I won’t sell y’all out either.”

Mr. Wayne’s expression didn’t change.

“And,” he continued, rambling now, because he was getting no feedback, no reaction, and that tended to trigger his nervous rambling like nothing else, “I’m not in it for the money either. I won’t be bought out or”—fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ why was he bringing that up, abort, _abort_ —"or even scared off into leaving, even if there’s—there’s a hit on me or something. I won’t cut him out of my life again, not unless he _wants_ to be cut out, in which case, you know, I’ll just. Leave.”

That was _worse,_ how the hell did he managed to make things _worse?_

“I’m—I’m in it for the long haul, is all I’m trying to say,” he mumbled to a finish.

Oh, a change in expression.

Oh no, that was offense. What did he say? How bad was it? Was he going to die? He was going to die, wasn’t he?

“I wouldn’t do my family the humiliation of putting a price on them, however indirectly.”

“That’s, um. Good?” Numbers replied as he rapidly replayed everything he’d said, trying to pinpoint where he’d ever implied putting a price on anyone. That he wouldn’t be bought out? No, that was more a price on _him,_ not the Waynes. Then what? The hit part? Mr. Wayne couldn’t be talking about the hit part, could he? It was the only other thing left, but that didn’t—

Or, well, okay, Numbers could see now how paying a partner to break the relationship was, in a roundabout way, putting a price on the person soon-to-be-dumped. That hadn’t really been what he’d had in mind when he’d said he wouldn’t be bought. It was just… He’d heard stories of how parents would pay off their kid’s partners, and said partner took the deal and _left,_ so he’d brought it up in case that was a concern, not because he’d _actually_ thought it’d happen.

“Nothing about the hit, though?” he asked, half-joking, laughing nervously.

Mr. Wayne just stared at him, dead-faced, and yeah, that was the face of a man who wasn’t joking.

“I—I wouldn’t hurt him,” he swore, and he might as well be talking to a brick wall for all the progress it seemed that he was making, but he kept trying. He _had_ to. “Not by choice, not _ever._ He’s—he’s _Jason._ ”

Jason with his bleeding heart for people, such a damn rare thing, never mind in _Gotham_ of all places, and you didn’t—you didn’t _hurt_ people like that. It just—it made you want to wrap them up and protect them from the world because you _knew_ the world was fucked up enough to fuck _them_ up, to harden them and make them lose faith in people, and _Numbers didn’t want that._

He’d give anything to keep Jason the way he was: painfully jaded, prickly, and sharp-edged, but always trying to help anyway because he knew what it was like and he didn’t want that for anyone else. Because it was the right thing to do, even at the expense of himself.

_A helping hand instead of a fist._

“I love him, Mr. Wayne. I always have.” He looked him in the eye, trying to get this across, that he was _serious._ “I was _always_ going to come back to Gotham, even before he—” He faked his death? Left? What exactly had happened? “I was always going to come back because even though I was a shit friend to him back then, I wanted to reconnect. I—” He let out a laugh. It didn’t sound happy, but he didn’t think that mattered. “I swore to myself that I was going to _do_ something with my smarts, and I was going to take care of him when we grew up to repay him for taking care of me when we were kids.

“And I get it, why y’all think I can’t be trusted, but I’d like the chance to prove y’all wrong.”

He was breathing a little heavily, heart beating overtime, but he’d gotten it out. He’d actually gotten it out, and steadily, too. He hadn’t sounded like he was terrified out of his mind, and he hadn’t stammered or stumbled over his words. He’d actually done it.

But at the end of the day, they were still just words, and words meant shit. Nothing would change if the Waynes didn’t decide that he was trustworthy, or at least that he was genuine in all this.

Seconds ticked by, and Numbers felt the nausea in the pit of his stomach curdle.

“We’ll be watching you,” Mr. Wayne finally said, and Numbers let out a shuddery sigh of relief, felt the tension bleed out of him.

He nodded. A little too enthusiastically, but he couldn’t help it.

“Of course, sir. Whatever makes y’all feel better.”

A raised brow.

“I mean! Anything to, you know, make sure Jason’s safe. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t begrudge y’all that.”

The brow rose higher.

“Not that—not that I have any right to!” Holy shit, shut up, shut up, _shut up._ Numbers resorted to physically covering his mouth.

Mr. Wayne’s mouth quirked into something that wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t the thin, unimpressed line it’d been before. Which wasn’t much, but he’d take it. Any progress was good progress at this point.

“We’ll be seeing more of each other, Joel.”

A dismissal. _Thank fuck._

Numbers nodded and almost tripped over the chair’s legs in his haste to leave the room without trying to make it seem like he was running away. He failed miserably on every front, but he was finally out of the room, the door closed behind him, and he was still alive _and_ allowed to continue seeing Jason, allowed to maybe be something _more_ than just friends, so win.

The best and biggest win ever.

“Will you be joining us for the evening service next Friday, Mr. Eppes?””

“Holy sh—!”

Numbers jumped but managed to catch himself on the door behind him before he did anything embarrassing like fall. Unfortunately, it banged loudly where his hands slapped on the wood.

Mr. Pennyworth looked just as unimpressed as Mr. Wayne had.

“Um, sorry, Mr. Pennyworth. What was—what was that?”

“Will you be joining us for the evening service for Rosh Hashanah, Mr. Eppes,” Mr. Pennyworth repeated, “or will you be heading home to spend the holidays with your family?”

With—

He swallowed.

It’d be great if he could spend them with Jason, but.

But might as well go two for two, right? He’d said it earlier, hadn’t he, that he’d—after, he’d—

And he didn’t trust himself not to chicken out at the last second. If he really wanted to do it, it’d be smart to close all his escape routes.

“I’m—I’m heading out to California.” He hadn’t bought the tickets yet, and they were going to be _so_ expensive, but. “I figure it’s as good a time as any to reconnect.”

To apologize for being such a shit son, for making them worry so damn much, and maybe… maybe to let them know why he absolutely _had_ to come back to Gotham. To finally tell them about Jason. He didn’t think he was ready to tell them everything, like the fact that he loved Jason, but it’d be a good start.

“Of course, sir,” Mr. Pennyworth agreed.

He didn’t need the escort, but Mr. Pennyworth walked him to the door anyway, and while Numbers didn’t check, he thought Mr. Pennyworth actually waited until he was past the gate before he closed the front door, like he wanted to make sure he got out safely or something.

Mom would’ve liked that. She’d always appreciated little gestures like that.

With a shaking, fumbling hand, Numbers pulled out his phone. There were still four numbers in his contacts because he still hadn’t gotten around to deleting Mr. Cobblepot’s number, but he fixed that with a simple swipe and click.

Mom’s and Dad’s numbers stared up at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to call them just yet. They were probably at work anyway.

But he’d call later. Soon. Even if he wasn’t sure what to tell them about Jason or _how,_ he’d call them, and not just because he’d need to be picked up from the airport, though yeah, that was a factor, he wasn’t going to lie. Mostly, it was because they’d appreciate the heads-up. Mom nursed a special hatred for last-minute houseguests, and Dad would want to take some time off so they could go fishing together.

They hadn’t gone fishing in ages.

He hadn’t _seen_ them in ages either. Mom would cry, which meant he and Dad were both going to cry because they were sympathetic criers, and Mom didn’t do things by halves. When she cried, she _bawled,_ and they’d never been able to stay dry-eyed when she did.

He was looking forward to it.

But first, he went for the only other number that mattered.

_“’lo?”_

Numbers felt himself smile at the drowsy greeting.

“Hey, Jason, sorry if I woke you.”

_“S’fine.”_ Some rustling of sheets. _“You need something?”_

He shook his head. “No, I just. I wanted to—” _Come on, Numbers, just spit it out._ “I wanted to ask you out.”

_“Out?”_ Jason asked, confused. Numbers was about to explain what meant by “out,” that he was asking him out on a _date,_ when Jason continued, _“You want—you want to go out. With me. On a **date.** ”_

“Yeah, with flowers and everything,” he replied, heart in his throat. He’d never understood that expression until now. “Not—not now or even next week or the week after. I, uh, I’m going back to California for the holidays, but maybe after?”

_“… I ain’t some virgin, Numbers, you don’t need to wine and dine me.”_

“Maybe I don’t,” he acknowledged, though he agreed with absolutely none of that. Jason wasn’t a virgin, but given what he knew of Jason’s experiences, that was all the more reason _to_ wine and dine him. Hell, even if he didn’t know, Numbers would’ve wined and dined him. Jason deserved the best. Deserved to—to be _wooed,_ to have all the stops pulled out just for him. “But I want to.”

He should stop by a flower shop. Green flowers were a thing, right?

A beat became two, and for a second, Numbers wondered if he’d read everything wrong, if Jason _wasn’t_ interested, after all. He might feel something for Numbers, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to _date_ him.

But then, Jason answered, a little quiet, _embarrassed,_ _“I got a regular gig at eight.”_

He grinned wide and didn’t even care that the Waynes could probably hear everything through the intercom by his side. He was going to be dating a _Wayne,_ so might as well get used to it now.

“Then we’ll meet before then, whenever you’re free,” he answered easily. “We’ve got plenty of time to figure out when and where.”

_“You—”_ Jason cut himself off but didn’t continue.

Numbers rocked on his heels, unable to stay still as he waited, and bit his lip so he wouldn’t ramble. He wanted to give Jason as much time as he needed to think, and that meant _not_ running his mouth.

_“… No flowers.”_

“I make no promises.”

He already had a plan in mind: flowers, a trip to a local bookstore— _Note to self: Find a local bookstore, ideally an independent one, Jason’ll like that better_ —and then lunch.

It was going to be _perfect._

_“Should’ve known you’d be a fucking sap after that Astronomy thing.”_

Numbers laughed. “Only for you, babe.”

Jason fell silent. Numbers very deliberately and with much effort did _not_ overthink. In fact, he wasn’t thinking at all.

_“I ain’t no ‘babe,’ Poindexter.”_

He laughed again.

Yeah, he was going to give this man the most perfect date in the history of first dates, _bet_ on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap, folks. Please be sure to subscribe to the series so that you’ll be notified when the next installment comes out. (Yes, there’s a next installment, I just don’t know when it’ll actually be out.)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always welcome. Constructive criticism, not so much.
> 
> Feel free to swing by [my Tumblr](https://shortdalee.tumblr.com/) and poke around! I promise I don’t bite. ;)


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